


Find Me

by smallbeans



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: BAMF Stiles, Eventual Smut, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Hurt Stiles, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Mates, Pack Dynamics, Spark Stiles, Stiles Stilinski Dies, The Alpha Pack, Vampires, and then he comes back!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-28
Updated: 2019-07-07
Packaged: 2020-02-09 09:45:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 29,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18635656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smallbeans/pseuds/smallbeans
Summary: When they find Stiles' jeep burnt to a crisp with an unidentifiable body inside, Stiles Stilinski is deemed dead. Over the years of grief and heartache, the pack grow and heal, forming unbreakable bonds.Five years after the accident, Stiles comes back, but he isn't quite Stiles anymore.





	1. love is smoke made with fumes of a sigh

**Author's Note:**

> Once again, apologies for a tragic summary.
> 
> So I started this story back in april 2016 (whaaaaat!!!) and was working on this on and off for so long, and I literally just found it yesterday when I remembered the log in for my old drafts wattpad account. I've read through it and because it was 90% finished I figured I'd post it. 
> 
> Be warned, it's a messy, quickly written and rushed fic because I had an idea and was so desperate to get it down. This story is everything and nothing that I wanted it to be, and as I wrote more I got more ideas, and things I planned on being the focus got lost and replaced. None the less, I'm posting it because it's almost finished and why the hell not :)
> 
> anyways, enjoy my 16 y-o writing skills and sterek obsession.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **love is smoke made with fumes of a sigh** \- william shakespeare, romeo and juliet

1

"Derek, there's been an accident."

He freezes, hand still where it was reaching to put his book down. His heart speeds up in his chest, breath caught in his throat.

"Who?" The word barely comes out, so quiet and fragile, like a thin shard of glass falling towards a spike of stone.

"It's Stiles," Scott replies through the phone, voice cracking, and Derek knows that isn't because of the faulty phone signal inside the loft.

Derek is up and running out the door before he's even taken another breath. He's running, phone still in hand but away from his ear. He can feel his heart punching against his ribs, blood throbbing in his ears. Everything is a blur until he is suddenly standing in the middle of town, the scene before him.

It's catastrophic. Chaos. A nightmare rolled into reality. Derek can barely see another past the orange blazing fire and dusty grey smoke licking the cars in the road. It's a pile up, three cars in a collision.

He spots the Jeep almost immediately, turned on its back, smashed and ruined. Blood fills his senses, his mind spins and he is suddenly so dizzy he can barely stand.

And then, the Jeep explodes, a colossal of flames bursting out from the inside. The shout is escaping Derek's throat before he realises and he's running forward on weak legs.

A hand grabs his arm, yanking him back. He turns around, control completely out the window, as he snarls with such ferocity he's not even sure it was him roaring or his wolf inside.

It's Scott, looking unfazed by Derek's approach but terrified at the same time.

"Derek, there's nothing we can do," he's saying, tears in his eyes and voice cracking, barely able to be heard over the shouts behind them.

The fire department are moving in, hoses shooting water onto the car. Ambulances are parked about, the other two cars empty and the injured already being looked at.

"Where's Stiles?" Derek asks, eyes racking over the paramedics.

He can't see him. Stiles isn't with them, which can only mean—

He doesn't remember falling, but suddenly he's on his knees. His breath is punched completely out of his lungs, he can't breathe, he can't think. Everything is muffled, his ears snd mouth stuffed with cotton. He's underwater, separated from the world. He can feel Scott's hand on his shoulder, trembling.

Stiles is inside the car.

Stiles is burning—

Stiles is _dying_ —

"STILES!"

The shrill scream breaks the soundproof walls around him. Everything comes scrambling back. He can hear the piercing sound of sirens, the shouts, the screams, the cries. He can smell the blood of the injured, the burning metal and the spiralling scents of everyone's emotions.

He hadn't even realised the cruisers had pulled up. The Sheriff is suddenly bursting out, running forward towards the blazing scene. It's Parrish who runs after him, grabbing him before he has a chance to run into the fire.

"That's my son!" John screams, struggling. "Let me go! Get him out! My son is in that car! That's my son! That's Stiles!"

Something shatters in Derek's chest at the raw and desperate shouts of a man towards his son. He aches, wolf howling and clawing at the surface to get out and get to his mate.

In the distance, Derek hears Lydia's scream.

 

They hear from John two days later. The body recovered from Stiles' Jeep was unidentifiable, burnt to a crisp, they tell them. The only thing they were able to savage was a necklace around the bodies neck. John is called in to identify it, and the moment the Sheriff steps into his home hours later where the pack has gathered, Derek knows it's bad news. He'd tried to convince himself in the days of waiting that by chance the person inside Stiles' car wasn't him, that Stiles is going to walk through the door any minute and say his Jeep was stolen, and ask why they all look so tearful. It's futile, but Derek can't stop.

John steps through the door, and if the negative and suffocating chemo-signals aren't enough to signal the tornado of news to come, the sight of the Sheriff makes it obvious enough:

The man looks ruined. His skin is tight over his cheeks from the days of waiting since the accident, eyes sunken and complexion white. His eyes are bloodshot as he meets Derek's.

His entire stomach drops to the floor.

"It's him," he whispers, shattering the silence like a hammer against glass. "It was Stiles' necklace."

For a long moment, Derek forgets to breath. The weight on his shoulders intensifies and he drops down in the chair beside him.

Melissa is marching forward, bringing John into a firm hug before the first sob comes. The pack collapses in on itself, everyone falling into each other for comfort. Stiles was all their anchors, he was what kept them down when they wanted to float away and held them up when they were drowning.

The funeral comes a week later. The weather is cool, windless but a drizzle of showers rain down on them. The women hold black umbrellas, men dressed in black suits, heads bowed and white wet tissues dabbing their eyes. The entire town has gathered to say the final goodbye to Sheriff Stilinski's son: students and teachers from school, deputies, towns people and shop and cafe workers.

Derek's heart is broken beneath his ribs. His wolf is howling, control on the boarder line of nonexistent as he fights to keep his wolf at bay. He watches as the casket is lowered, the wooden box holding the burnt remains of his mate disappearing in the ground next to his mothers grave stone.

It feels just like eight years ago when his family was buried, bodies burnt and chard, non-recognisable. And Stiles being buried in the ground, with the same scorching fate, hurts so much more than when Derek was here the first time.

The funeral holder speaks, reading out poems and speeches but Derek can't focus on it. His eyes are glued to the casket, the flowers, the photos. Stiles' blinding smile glares back at him as rain drops run down the plastic covering it, shielding it from the weather.

The grief is suffocating. It consumes Derek, ripping his chest apart, tearing ribs and breaking his heart.

Derek clenches his eyes shut against the tears. He's always been able to suppress his emotions, always been able to shove them back and pretend they aren't there. He has a shield, walls built around him like a castle to protect him from anything that could break him like he was broken years ago by Kate. Stiles had been the only person who had been able to see through the mask he wore, to detect the emotions Derek had a bad habit of hiding. There were times Stiles had managed to label the things Derek didn't even realise he _was_ feeling, and Stiles was always the best at comforting him through it too. They both had emotional suppressants in common, the familiar grasp of grief had burdened them both and Stiles was the only one in the pack who was able to pull Derek from behind his castle walls and tell him it was okay to cry some times.

Scott stands beside him, his soft, muffled sobs hear-able to those standing close. Derek feels like he should reach over, comfort the young teen for his loss. Stiles was his best friend for fuck sake, Derek should comfort _him_. But his arm feels like lead where they hang at his sides. He can't move them, scared that if he does he'll crumble like a Jenga tower.

John steps up, revealing a collection of crumpled papers from his blazer pocket. His voice shakes when he first speaks, cracking.

"I still remember the first day Stiles was born. I still remember how terrifying it was, to hold a brand new life in my hands, so small and breakable. I was shaking so bad Claudia was terrified I was going to drop him," John lets out a small, fragile laugh. Derek can see him rapidly blinking, trying to keep the tears back. "Stiles was a...chaotic child. He was loud, and energetic, and sometimes difficult. Before he was diagnosed with ADHD, he ran us ragged with his constant talking and moving. That was something Stiles never grew out of."

John paused, swallowing visibly and taking a deep breath. Derek felt breathless himself, he has no idea how John can stand up there and speak about Stiles so soon.

"My son lived his life on his terms. He listened, but did not take advice. Instead, he gave it. And sometimes, it was the worst advice anyone could give, but it made you smile. He was sarcastic, witty and sometimes he didn't know when to stop. But there was not a day that passed that Stiles didn't make someone laugh, didn't make the room lighter and the mood happier. He was strong-willed, strong-minded. When he set his mind to something, Stiles didn't give up until he achieved it, one way or another.

"Stiles lost his mother when he was nine. At such a fragile age and in such a fragile time, I realise now that I abandoned my son in my own time of grief. I was rarely home, didn't cook for him, didn't tend to his childhood needs. But Stiles has proved to me over the years that in that time, he grew up more than I could have ever influenced. He learnt to look after himself, and learnt to look after me. He proved his selflessness, proved his determination and love.

"Stiles protected his family and friends above all else. He was intelligent, sometimes too smart for his own good. He wasn't always the easiest person to get along with, but at the end of the day, he was always someone you could go to. He was the kind of person who would drop anything if you called, if you needed help, Stiles would be the first person to your aid.

"Stiles' death came as a surprise to us all," John murmurs, voice cracking. "He did not die on his terms. He did not want to leave us. He loved us, and he will continue to love us. My son, Mieczyslaw Stilinski, died young, but he died a man. He died with the dignity and the respect he deserved. He achieved his goal of making us proud. He achieved his goal of being proud of himself. Our lives will never be the same. He made sure of that.

"Stiles, I love you with all my heart. I am profoundly proud of you. I look forward to seeing you again when the time comes. I will continue to be the best Sheriff I can be, as you always admired. I will continue to seek peace, as you wished. I will not let you down. It is my turn to make you proud."

Everyone is crying when he finishes. Derek has his head ducked to hide the tears, to hide the emotions so raw and obvious on his face. He finally finds the courage to lift his arm and pull Scott into his side, the action only making the teen cry harder and louder.

"I can smell him," Scott whispers hoarsely. "It's like he's here with us."

Derek closes his eyes against the words, stabbing his straight in his chest.

"It's not real, Scott," Derek whispers. "His stuff is here."

"I know," Scott rasps. "Can you smell it too?"

Derek doesn't reply, because he can smell it. The core smells of Stiles' scent lingers amongst them, as if he's standing right there. But Derek knows he's not, and he can't think like that because it will only tear him apart even more. He's heartbroken enough, because Stiles was his mate and more than that, Derek never had the chance or guts to tell him.

A few others give speeches, telling everyone how much of a character Stiles was, how much he'll be missed and how much of an impact he had on everyone he knew. Deputies and students all shared happy memories and stories of Stiles, one that had once made them happy and now make them cry.

"'I've learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.' by Maya Angelou," Parrish quotes, standing at the head of the casket, red rose in hand.

 

The following day, Scott turns up at the loft. Derek is still in bed, wide awake, having not slept a wink all night. He's exhausted, physically and mentally drained, emotionally raw as he lays amongst the blankets and comforters of his bed.

It's Boyd who comes in first to face him.

"Scott's downstairs," he says. "He wants us all to go to the Sheriff's. He wants to tell him about us, about werewolves. He says he knows Stiles would want him to know."

Derek closes his eyes, despite already having his back to the door and Boyd.

"That's a bad idea," he whispers.

"I know, but maybe it'll be a good one in the long run," Boyd replies. "It sounds like something Stiles would want."

"How can we know that?" Derek rolls over, eyes hard and glaring at his beta in the doorway. "Stiles is dead, Boyd."

The beta says nothing spiteful in retaliation, instead, he sighs, moving further into the room.

"Derek, I know Stiles was your mate."

His head snaps up. "How—"

"You're more obvious than you think," Boyd smiles. "I know he was your mate, and I know you didn't want anyone to know. And I also know that this is hurting you a lot more than everyone else and you're too scared to admit it. John lost his son, we lost our anchor, our pack mate and our friend. But you lost your soulmate, you lost the only thing to keep you living, and I know it must hurt."

"You have no idea how much it hurts," Derek snaps weakly. He wants to sound threatening, to sound like he used to sound, when Stiles was still—

"You're right, I don't know, but I can _see_ ," Boyd replies. "I can see how you're hurting, but what _you_ can't see is how you hurting is hurting all of us. It's bad enough we lost Stiles, but we're losing you too. You have every right to grieve, to mourn, but don't do it alone, Derek. We're a pack, and we've lost our glue, we need to try harder to stay together."

It barely takes a moment for Derek to realise Boyd is right. Derek has lost more than anybody else, but he can't deal with this alone. And he can't abandon his pack, he needs them just as much as they need him.

"Okay," he whispers. "I'll be down in a minute."

Boyd flashes him a smile and small nod before he turns and leaves, shutting the door gently behind him.

It takes Derek a long time to get up, but when he finally makes his way downstairs, his heart jumps in his throat.

Every member of the pack are sitting on the sofas. Boyd, Erica, Isaac, Lydia, Jackson, Allison and Scott. After a long moment, Erica is up and running towards him, throwing him into a hug that Derek practically melts into. Somethings in his chest warms, but it isn't whole.

"We missed you last night," Erica whispers into his ear. "You missed pack cuddles."

Derek nods weakly as he pulls back. "I'm sorry. It won't happen again."

Erica grins. "Better not."

When they get to Sheriff Stilinski's, Derek can smell the grief and misery from the street. It's suffocating, thick and blinding. The moment he steps into the house he knows he's going to regret it their decision to come here.

John takes the news badly. At first he doesn't believe them, calls their bluff and glares at them for playing such a harsh joke in his time of grief. When they shift, showing their glowing eyes and sharp teeth, John is pulling out his gun, screaming and yelling. He chucks them out, slamming the door and threatening to shoot bullets into their skulls if they come back.

All in all, Derek hadn't expected much different.

It takes days before they hear from him, and it's actually Melissa who phones, who calls to say that the Sheriff is over and asking to see them.

He stands in the McCall living room. He keeps a distance between them all, warning that he has wolfs bane in his gun and he's not afraid to use them.

Scott looks stricken. "Where did you get them from?"

"Chris Argent," John replies. "If I had known he was this kind of hunter, I would have left Beacon Hills a long time ago."

"You're gonna leave?" Scott sounds incredibly heartbroken.

John clenches his jaw, taking a long moment to reply, "No. This is my home, this was Stiles'—" he cuts himself off with a painful voice break, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath. "I want an explanation," he continues. "I want to know why you're telling me this."

"It's what Stiles would have wanted," Scott answers. "He always said if anything happened to him, we had to look after you. This was the best way. You needed to know the truth."

"And why didn't my son tell me this?"

"He was protecting you," Derek says. "He wanted you to know, but it was safer if you didn't, or at least, that's what he believed."

John nods, but Derek knows he doesn't really understand.

"So you're. . . werewolves," John says, as if to himself for verbal confirmation. He nods at Lydia, who hasn't said a word, "and you're a banshee?" Lydia nods in reply. He looks at them all again, "Are you going to kill me?"

Scott sputters. "What? No! Sheriff—"

"John, they're not like that," Melissa steps in.

"I can't believe you knew about this before I did," John sighs, sounding both angry and confused.

Melissa smiles sadly. "My son is a werewolf, John. Yours wasn't. He was able to keep this from you, protect you from it."

John is silent for a long minute, and then he's rubbing a hand down his face, sighing deeply. He suddenly looks exhausted, and Derek doesn't blame him. It hasn't even been a week since Stiles' funeral. They shouldn't have thrown this on him so soon.

"Was Stiles. . ." He doesn't finish, but Derek knows exactly what he's asking.

"No. Stiles was human."

John nods. "Was he. . . do you know if the crashed was caused because of this?"

Derek freezes. He hadn't even thought of that.

He looks to Scott, who's mirroring the same expression.

"Not that we know of," Derek replies carefully. "We would know if another supernatural being was in the area, and I couldn't smell anything at the scene."

John nods. "Christ," he sighs, closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose. He drops down in the arm chair beside him. "This is. . . this is a lot to take in."

Melissa smiles sympathetically standing next to him and resting a hand on his shoulder. "You're handling it better than I did."

Later, when the pack have explained to John the dynamics of the supernatural and answered most of his questions - all to their best ability - they all move into the kitchen. John makes coffee, everyone sitting at the dining table as they talk some more. They get into more mundane topics and Derek excuses himself to the bathroom.

He finds himself standing outside Stiles' bedroom. The doors open wide, as it was when he walked up the stairs, exposing the room to passing eyes.

Derek can't even fantom the catastrophic break in his chest, his ribs shattering like glass, tearing through his skin and organs. He feels pain, physical pain that almost knocks him off his feet.

The scent of his mate swirls up his nose, going straight to his head like a drug. When he next breaths, he feels as though he's been starved of oxygen for a thousand years and can finally suck it back into his lungs.

"He was crazy about you, y'know,"

He looks to his side to see Lydia standing at the top of the stairs.

"What?"

She steps forward, coming to mirror Derek's position as she leans on the doorframe, looking into the room that is breaking and healing them at the same time.

"Stiles. He was crazy about you," Lydia says, smiling sadly. "He loved you so, so much, it was almost pathetic. I'm surprised you never noticed before, Stiles wasn't exactly trying very hard to hide it. I know it hurts, and I know it's tough, but we can get through it. We can heal, we're going to heal, Derek."

 

Lydia becomes pack second, mostly because she won't take anyone's shit - especially Derek's - and it brings the pack closer. Scott and Allison finally get together and the pack meet a girl at school called Kira, who eventually reveals herself as a Kitsune, but moves out of town a year later. Peter moves out, moving a few towns over to get away from the pack's mourning. He visits, but Derek knows better than to ask him to stay.

John moves in with Melissa, selling the Stilinski home out of grief. He admits to the pack that going home every night, even when the pack were over and the home was filled with sound and light, he said he can't bare living in the home he shared with not only his dead wife, but now his dead son. The pack completely understand, despite being devastated that they were going to be saying goodbye to the only physical place that held Stiles' scent and belongings so strongly.

Derek climbs through Stiles' bedroom window the night before the house is sold. The scent is barely there, having it been almost a eight months since Stiles' passing, but the comfort it brings to Derek is irreplaceable. Everything is as Stiles left it months prior. His desk is still messy, papers spewed across the surface, his laptop is still open, screen black. John had said he had come in hundreds of times, working himself up to finally go through Stiles' things, but he never had the courage. Uncovering Stiles' belongings feels like opening the wound again and pouring salt on it.

Derek runs his fingers over the spines of the books on Stiles' shelves. He opens his wardrobe, breathing in the dusty scent, faded and barely there, but it's there. He pulls out his red sweatshirt, the one Stiles always wore for any occasion. The fluff inside is worn, thinned out and flat. The sleeves have home-made thumb-holes, the hood ties chewed on the ends and stiff. Derek presses the fabric to his nose, taking an impossibly deep breath to take in the smell that has faded from every other place in his life.

He falls asleep on Stiles' bed, curled around the hoodie.

He's gone from the house before Sheriff Stilinski wakes up, and he takes the hoodie with him.

 

Over a year after Stiles' death, in the August, Derek begins to rebuild the Hale house. It's become obvious they all need a place to call home, a centre for the pack, and Derek knows they won't find that at the shabby loft he's been renting.

The beginning of the project starts with knocking down the old remains of his childhood home, and that's the hardest part. He calls Peter back, asking him to help and telling the pack that this is something they should do alone. It sucks, and every time Derek brings to hammer down to knock another piece of his home away, he feels the pang in his chest.

Lydia helps him design the new house. It's going to be huge, gorgeous and perfect. There's going to be ten rooms in total, two of them being spares in case someone is visiting or if the couples who are sharing have an evening of squabbles and don't want to share a bed. The secret reason for one of the spare room is mostly because Derek needs a room for Stiles. He needs a room that he can, in his head, look to and say that's Stiles' bedroom. He doesn't tell anyone this, but neither does Lydia ask why he wants two rooms instead of one, instead giving him a gentle smile and scribbling it into the plans.

It takes Derek a little over 8 months to finish building and decorating the house. He finishes the house on the 1st of April - three days before Stiles' birthday. It's the second birthday since he died, and for some reason, Derek finds it harder than the first.

He builds the house all by himself, with the occasional help from different pack members. It takes a long time, but it's worth it in the end when he walks into a finished home that's already filled with the scent of pack.

It gives everyone a second home, gives them all a place to run to and find salvation. They all gather on weekends for movie nights and sleepovers, but most of the time, only Erica, Boyd and Isaac stay every night. John and Melissa share a room, coming over on the occasion that they just need to have the pack with them and vice versa. Despite various members of the pack not actually being supernatural, they still feel the need to be around pack members to settle themselves.

They all grow closer. They take turns on weekends to cook large meals, have BBQ's and endure pack training. They very often spend time over the weekend during the hot summers going down to the lake and having a swim. In the summer evenings they would sit on the rocks, indulging in the last rays of sun as they watch it set over the hills behind Beacon Hills.

Everything was slowly fixing itself, slowly coming together again, and it felt good.

 

1 year and 9 months after Stiles' death, only four weeks after the Hale house is finished, the Sheriff is shot.

It was a surprise attack from a noise complaint call, a group of gang members gathered in a suburban home and when John and Parrish entered, they fired with full, panicked force. A bullet caught John in the shoulder, a clean flesh wound but he lost blood fast, making it in the nick of time to the hospital.

Scott and Derek found Parrish in the waiting room, chewing his nails to the quick and pacing a depression into the floor. John was wheeled into surgery the moment he had got there in the ambulance and the three of them waited all night for any word.

The doctor appeared in the early hours of the morning.

"The wound was clean, straight through, fresh and muscle wound."

"That's why he was bleeding twice as fast," Parrish adds, but the way he says it is like he's repeating it to himself, reassuring himself. No one brings him up on it.

The doctor nods. "Yes. The surgery was required to repair and removed the damaged muscle tissue and remove any debris. It was a success, no complications. Visiting hours are officially over but I understand you have been waiting all night and he is the county sheriff. I'll have Melissa come down in a minute to take you to his room."

"Thank you, doctor," Scott says, and the man nods again before turning and disappearing around the corner.

Parrish drops down in the chair with a heavy sigh.

"It's not your fault, Parrish," Derek insists, recognising the beginning signs of vicious blame and guilt. "There was nothing you could have done to prevent this."

"He's gonna be fine, you heard the doctor," Scott adds, resting a comforting hand on the deputies shoulder. "The surgery was a success, you know he won't blame you for what happened."

"I know," Parrish murmurs. He moves suddenly, wiping his hands over his face. "I know. I just. . . I should have done something."

"You did," Derek says sternly. "He would have bled out in that house, Parrish. You saved his life, don't forget that."

Parrish nods, but Derek can see the disbelief in his eyes. He knows better than to keep pressing, though, because he knows more than anyone what it's like to be pushed and told not to feel guilty.

Melissa enters the empty waiting room then, looking flustered but calm at the same time. She smiles at them, jerking her head to follow her. She leads them through the maze of the hospital, weaving around corners and upstairs and through various doors until they finally arrive.

John has his own private room, a deputy sitting on a plastic chair outside the door. He silently nods at them as they approach and open the door.

The sheriff lays in the bed, pale but looking considerably better than he had done a few hours prior. He's sleeping, the room filled with tiny snores. Derek claps Parrish encouragingly on the shoulder before stepping forward and taking residence in the chair by the window, giving him a clear view of the room and all the entrances. Scott sits beside the sheriff with his back to the door and Parrish stands at the end, looking uncomfortable and ready to flee at any moment.

"Parrish, it's okay—"

"I'm gonna head back to the station," he interrupts. "John would be furious if he thought we were slacking."

"Okay," Derek nods. "But come back, he'll want to see you when he wakes up."

"Yeah..." Parrish whispers. He watches John for a few more moments before lowering his head and heading to the door.

He turns around in the threshold, "call me if anything changes."

"Of course," Scott says instantly.

Parrish flashes them a weak smile before he disappears out the door that falls shut softly behind him.

 

It's a long crawl back to consciousness for John. At first, he doesn't even realise what's happening. All he can see is black. He's floating, drifting on some white cloud, limbs weightless. When he cracks his eyes open, everything is blurry. It takes him a moment to realise the room around him is dark, the only source of light being the glow coming through the window from the hallway.

He comes to his senses slowly, and when he does, he finally realises someone is standing beside the bed.

If he had the energy, he would have been startled, but the drugs in his system and the mild throbbing in his shoulder makes everything slow. His head is stuffed with cotton, thoughts a beat behind the present. Everything is sluggish.

He blinks at the bystander. Their standing on the window side of the bed, the glow of the lights from outside the room shining on him but the hood over his head keeps his face hidden. John squints, trying to see something.

And then the person shifts enough for the hood to move, revealing part of his face, their eyes connecting.

Everything is hazy, like some kind of dream, and the idea of it not being real becomes all the more understandable when the word falls from the Sheriff's lips.

"Stiles?" He whispers, voice weak and raspy as he stares at the being before him. They're looking down on him with a blank expression, but the face is so similar to his sons that it takes his breath away.

They don't answer and everything is slowly beginning to fade away. Sleep is dragging him back down, his consciousness ebbing away. He can see past the figure of his son enough to see Derek asleep in the chair and he wonders how this is all happening.

"Stiles. . ." John says again, even quieter. He blinks, and it feels like a lifetime before he can get his eyes open again. The figure is still there, still looking down.

There's a sound outside and the figure of his son's head snaps up towards the door. There's a distant sound of the doorknob creaking and suddenly Stiles is turning around, hood draping over his face. He heads to the window and then everything goes black, sleep finally taking over.

He tells Scott and Derek in the morning, when he's more coherent and can actually stay awake for more than a minute. He's sitting up in bed, hands restless in his lap as he tells them he saw Stiles when he first woke up.

The two wolves look shocked, somewhat confused.

"John. . ." Derek says slowly. "Stiles is—"

"I know," John stresses, sounding heated. "But... it seemed so real. Can you... do you smell anything? Can you sense if he's been here?"

Scott looks to Derek, and the pair exchange a sympathetic look.

"John," Scott starts. "If Stiles had been here, if anyone had been in here, we would have woken up. We would be able to smell him, but the only thing we can smell is hospital."

After a long moment, John nods.

"I was probably just imagining it then," he murmurs, but Derek can see the wheels turning behind his eyes, the unfocused gaze as he relives the moment in his head, looking back and wondering.

 

Four days later, when the sheriff is home, the pack wake up to a package on the doorstep. It's a box, wrapped in brown paper with nothing written on the front. Derek rips it open to find a wooden box, inside holding thirteen bracelets and a hand-written note.

_'Wear these for protection. They connect the bonds between pack members. You'll be able to feel each others emotions, sense when they're in danger and be properly connected._

_Never_ _take them off'_

The writing is curly and cursive, and when the wolves smell the paper and the box, it smells of nothing apart from herbs and something sour, something burnt.

"What the fuck?" Erica curses in confusion.

"Someone is looking out for us," Peter replies, reaching into the box and pulling out a bracelet. The bracelets are leather bound, different colours. There are small indents in the leather, small, curly carvings. "These are handmade bond bracelets to complete the bonds between pack members."

"Why would someone send these to us?" Scott asks, looking at the bracelet closely in Peter's fingers.

"Or perhaps the better question would be, _who_ would send these to us?"

They put the bracelets on, but after a few weeks of looking into it, they come up with no answers.

Eventually, they stop looking, but they never take the bracelets off.

 

Months pass and they hear nothing new of Stiles again. He's merely an end of day thought, but he's thought of everyday. No one forgets him, forgets his life or the space he left in the pack, but they start healing. They had started to move on in small ways. It's hard, with a huge chunk of their lives abruptly cut out and missing, but they try. They laugh loudly, sometimes too loudly, to fill the space that's missing, the sound that's gone. It's not the same, and it never will be, but they're trying.

The pack graduate from school, and Derek joins John and Melissa at the ceremony. He watches as his pack walk on stage, chest swelled with a pride and happiness so strong he can't remember the last time he felt so light.

Two years after Stiles' death, Derek is sitting on the Hale House porch when John drops down next to him. The pack are having a BBQ before they all go to college, everyone gathered in the front garden. Lydia, Allison and Melissa are sitting at the table with glasses of _Pimms_ and chatting. Isaac, Scott, Jackson and Boyd are playing a rough game of Lacrosse, equally as competitive as they always have been. Erica stands by the trees, watching and shouting abuse to the boys as they play, smiling with mischievous glee.

Derek feels warm. He feels at peace, but not whole. He will never be whole. He will always have that small tightness in his chest, the pain in his breathing. It will never go away, but he knows that.

So when John sits down next to him, two bottles of beer in his hands, Derek is more than a little surprised.

"Here, son," he says, handing Derek one of the open bottles, glass wet from the coolness. "You look like you need one."

Derek smiles, taking the bottle and having a sip. "Thanks."

They're quiet for a minute, watching the pack around them.

"Lydia told me you loved Stiles,"

Derek freezes, every joint and muscle coiling up.

"Don't panic, son. I already had my assumptions, she just confirmed them for me," John says. "You know, if Stiles was still here, I would have hoped he had found someone like you."

"Excuse me?"

"I knew my sons preference before he even came out," John continues. "I knew he liked boys, I didn't mind. I would have been protective despite his choice. Girls or boys, heartbreak sucks and Stiles gives his whole self when he likes someone. At the beginning, if he had brought you home, I would have put a handful of bullets in you and grounded Stiles until college."

"Um. . ."

"And I would have regretted it painfully, because you're a good kid. You would have been perfect for Stiles, and he would have been perfect for you,"

Derek can feel his eyes burning so he looks down at his feet.

"I want you to have something," John says, and moments later, he's pulling something out of his jacket pocket.

Stiles' necklace.

Derek gapes, heart hammering. "Sheriff. . ."

John sighs. "How many times do I need to tell you to call me John? We're pack now, right?"

"Right,"

"Then call me John," he smiles. He holds the necklace up higher, "I think you should have this."

"I don't. . ." Derek whispers. "John—"

"He loved you, Derek. And when Stiles loves, he loves with his whole heart. He would be so proud of what you've done, what you've done for us and for yourself," John says, looking him straight in the eyes. It's time like these that Derek is reminded despite the fact the two Stilinski men showed no obvious physical resemblance, their eyes were the same. Different in colour, but they held the same shadows, the same emotions that bled through like ink on a page. So obvious, so raw. Derek could always tell how Stiles was feeling just by his eyes.

John extends his arm holding the necklace, the silver change and crystal stone charm swaying. Derek holds out his hand instinctively and John places the jewel into it. The weight of it burns Derek's palm, like a shot of electricity bolting through his veins.

"I know grief," John continues. "I know how it can ruin everything you believe in. I know it can make life seem so pointless. Grief brings out the worst in people, but I think it brought out the best in you. So, I want you to have Stiles' necklace. I want you to have it, to wear it, to cherish it because I know that's what Stiles would want."

Derek swallows thickly as he stares at the blue crystal and silver chain in his hand. "I don't know what to say," he whispers, unable to speak any louder.

John just smiles.

 

It's only Scott who stays in Beacon Hills after graduation, taking a Vet course at the local community college and doing an internship with Deaton. Lydia goes to New York to study mathematics and doctors science. Allison goes into army cadets, Boyd does engineering while Jackson travels to England to study sports. Isaac goes into study childcare at a volunteer group a few towns over, so he doesn't move out either, but he doesn't work town-local. Kira calls them all to tell that she's going travelling with her mother, finding out more about her culture and Kitsune powers while Erica gets a full time job in Brooklyn, moving in with Boyd in New York so she can save enough money to go travelling too.

It's strange to begin with. Derek feels incredibly lonely after the years of being surrounded by pack. It helps that Scott and Isaac stayed, both of them permanently living in the pack house, but Derek still feels lonely. He feels the ache in his chest so much more now, the absence of Stiles so much more raw and obvious. Derek spends hours of his days alone, when Scott and Isaac are out, sitting on the front porch, Stiles necklace around his neck, hanging against his own as he rolls the crystals between his fingers.

Despite in no need for money, Derek gets bored of being alone after a few months and is offered by John to help out at the sheriff station. So Derek begins, spending hours making coffees, fetching files and assisting deputies before he gives John his input on a specific case that ends up leading to the solution. John quickly recruits him, walking him through the six week training before he had to be assessed.

Four years and five months after Stiles' death, Derek becomes Beacon Hills newest deputy. He spends his days chasing down speed-limit risk takers and answering to noise complaints, but he loves it. He feels like he has a purpose again.

 

It happens the night they're in the bank vault, getting Erica and Boyd, who have been missing for months. The pair had gone missing on their journey home from college at the beginning of summer and it didn't take long for the pack to connect the dots to their disappearance and the alphas uninvited welcome.

The alphas who have been reigning terror over the pack aren't there when Derek and Scott smash through the vault wall, but Erica, Boyd and the other mystery wolf are, all laying unconscious on the floor.

Scott sends Derek a confused glance. Both of them were expecting a fight, a battle with three feral wolves who have been starved of the full moon. They'd felt Erica and Boyd through the bond from the bracelets, felt their struggling shift and their pain. Instead, all three of them lay on the floor, slumped and limp.

Derek approaches the mystery wolf, whom is laying on their front, long brown hair covering their face. Derek crouches down with caution, ignoring Scott's hushed hisses of warning.

"Phone Allison," Derek says. "Tell her to come and break the line of mountain ash. We can't carry them back the way we came in."

Scott nods behind him, pulling out his phone just as Derek lifts the brown hair off the girls face.

His heart drops, pulse speeding like rocket fuel was running through his veins.

It. . . It can't be.

Scott must sense his panic and confusion, because he's running to his side immediately.

"What's wrong?" He asks, but Derek doesn't answer. He can't take his eyes off the wolf at his knees. "Derek! Come on, man. What's—"

"It's my sister," Derek whispers.

"Your. . . sister?" Scott echoes. "But. . . Laura—"

"Not Laura, you idiot," Derek growls. " My younger sister. Cora. I thought. . . I thought she died in the fire."

He can hear Scott quietly gasp behind him. "Oh. . . holy shit."

Allison arrives minutes later, breaking the line and allowing the rest of the pack to come in and help carry the unconscious wolves out. Derek doesn't have time to wonder where the alpha pack were before they are driving towards the Vet office, Scott already on the phone with Deaton and explaining what's happened.

It takes over a day for Erica, Boyd and Cora to wake up and during that time, Derek doesn't leave their sides. His wolf is thrumming at the panic of his two oldest betas in danger, unconscious and the reason unknown. And Cora is back. His younger sister who for over ten years he has believed is dead.

Peter comes from where he had been staying at the Hale house, helping with finding Erica and Boyd and the alphas. He's just as shocked as Derek is, but quickly leaves after admitting being around Cora after what he did to Laura was too difficult at the moment. Derek is happy and relieved by Peters guilt and remorse, but the wolf inside him, the wolf still attached to his old pack member whines for his uncle, who's so torn up about something he was mostly feral for.

Cora wakes up with a snarl, which is no surprise. Her claws are out in an instant, slicing through the air and barely missing Derek's face. He grabs her wrist, flashing his red eyes to make her stop.

"D-Derek?" She stutters, golden eyes melting back to their original chocolate brown. She must be twenty by now, Derek realizes, but in that moment, she looks no older than the ten year old he lost in the smoke of the fire. Eyes wide and vulnerable.

The connection with his younger sister fills some of the void in his chest. Not all of it, but some of it and as he holds his sister to his chest in a desperate hug, he feels the warmth he's been so dreadfully missing start to seep in again.

Erica and Boyd wake up not too long later, and when Derek asks them what happened, they all reply with the same thing.

"We saw Stiles," Erica explains when all the pack have gathered in the small room in the back of the Vet office. The single three words have Derek's chest shattering again. A deadly silence settling over the pack. "He was there before you guys got there. The alpha pack. . . they seemed. . . scared of him. I don't know. It's all kind of hazy. He was with someone, but he didn't say anything. He just made this blue light with his hands and I can't remember anything else."

"Only magic users can do that," Deaton replies. "The blue light with his hands is what knocked you out."

"This is insane," Scott says, rubbing a hand down his face, clenching it into a fist and pressing it to his mouth. After a long moment, his crooked jaw clenched and eyes hard as they glare at the floor, they snap up in Erica's direction. "You're lying."

Erica looks stricken. "No, Scott, I'm not. We all saw—"

"Stop!" Scott roars. "Stiles is _dead_ , okay? He died five years ago. He was _burned alive_. Lydia _screamed_ , we buried him in the ground. _Stop_ saying he's still alive!"

"Scott. . ." Lydia whispers, reaching out to lay a hand on his shoulder but he coils away sharply.

"No. No, I'm not listening to this," Scott shakes his head. "You must have saw someone else. Your mind. . . it's tricking you. Stiles isn't magic, and he isn't alive!"

 

The alphas don't go away after that. It takes six months for them to finally find them again, to finally come face to face, as a pack. They're in the Preserve, the half moon high in the sky.

"Well, how the mighty Hale pack has fallen," Deucalion taunts. "Your mother would be so disappointed, Derek."

Derek snarls, wolf becoming uncontrollable.

"Of course, it's hard to be disappointed from the dead."

The roar all Derek, Peter and Cora let are wounded, raw and angry. Deucalion smirks at the response, sadistic and cunning.

"Angry little wolves," he muses. Kali, Ennis and the twins behind him snarl with matching expressions.

The fight is mostly a blur. Derek can barely get a moment to glance around to see if his pack are doing okay. He can feel it all in the bonds, but he only sees glimpses.

He see's Erica being thrown off Kali's back, the claws on her feet slicing her chest.

He see's the twins merging into one enormous beast throwing, Boyd and Isaac to the side like rag dolls.

He see's Ennis slamming Peter's head into the dirt, knocking Scott of his feet and grabbing him with clawed hands.

He see's Allison in the sidelines, shooting her bow until the twins are barreling into her side, knocking her down and out.

He see's Deucalion charging towards him. He throws his arms up, swiping and slicing. He feels his claws catch the skin, but it's not enough. Deucalion has the upper hand, he has more strength and power. He hits Derek with every blow, making him disorientated. He's quickly becoming increasingly tired, fatigue weighing down his limbs. His vision blurs when Deucalion swipes his claws down his chest, pain exploding from the deep cuts.

Derek is thrown onto his back, the air in his lungs being punched out. He's winded, lungs refusing to work and air stuck in his throat. He chokes, sputtering and coughing as he gasps his breath back.

His vision clears in time to see Deucalion snarling, leaping and running towards him, sharp claws at the ready and eyes shining a ferocious red. Derek knows this is the end. He can't stop the blow from coming.

He shuts his eyes, throat closing up.

The blow never comes.

He opens his eyes just in time to see someone crouched at his side, inches in front of him, their hands thrown up. And then Deucalion is bring thrown back, catapulted as he smacks into something. A blue, shimmering shield glimmers around him and the other person, formed over them like a dome.

And then, it's disappearing like a show curtain falling and Derek finally looks at the figure in front of him. He blinks rapidly, afraid his mind is tricking him. How hard did he hit his head?

But, he can't mistake it. Even from the side, it looks exactly the same. He can trace the moles, the pale skin beneath them just as soft and illuminated.

It's _Stiles_.

"Stiles?" Derek whispers.

He turns to him, eyes shining. Derek barely has a moment to stare any longer before Stiles is turning back to Deucalion, rising to his feet and throwing his hands up again. Deucalion flies off the floor, swooping to the other side of the clearing and colliding with a large tree with a disturbing crack.

The merged twins let out a glass-shattering roar before they're charging towards Stiles from behind. Stiles turns around with light speed, raising a hand and a immense, almost blinding, blue light emits from his palm. It hits the twins square in the chest, striking them like a lightening bolt. They jerk, twitching violently until they separate, and then Stiles flicks his hand, sending the now two individual wolves to the side. They land with loud thumps and don't get back up.

It's then, when Stiles turns to look at someone, that Derek realises Stiles isn't alone.

There's another magic user beside him, hands up and a blue light shining onto Ennis, who's snarling and fighting against the magic holding him in place. The light flickers, the magic becoming weak. Stiles must sense this, because he's suddenly behind Ennis, somersaulting high enough to flip over the alpha's shoulder all the while wrapping an arm around his neck. As Stiles lands on his feet on the other side, he slams Ennis' head into his shoulder so hard Derek can hear his own collar bone break as well as the snapping of the alpha's neck.

Derek gapes, shook to the bone as Ennis drops lifelessly to the floor while Stiles stands, still and eerie.

"I had him, y'know," the other guy says, panting. "You didn't have to go and break your shoulder for me."

Derek hears Stiles snort, despite the pain he must be in. "Of course you had him."

A snarl brings Derek back to the present and he looks from where he's still laying on the ground to see Kali helping Deucalion to his feet. Both of them stare at the fresh fighters, snarling and roaring before they're running into the trees, disappearing into the shadows.

There's a long moment, when the world seems to stop spinning. Everything is still, like they're in a bubble, it's only them, alone in the world. Derek's focus is zeroed in on the pack member he lost so long ago, the one he barely recognises now.

"Mitch, we need to go," the other man says, taking Stiles' attention off the darkness Kali and Deucalion just disappeared into.

Stiles is looking between them all, eyes pained. Derek's wolf is whining inside but he can't even move. He can't breath, he can't think. His mind is screaming one word, confused and spiralling.

_STILES. MATE. STILES. MATE. STILES. MATE. STI—_

"Go to Deaton's," Stiles is saying, his words barely making it to Derek's ears. "Go to Deaton’s, and heal."

Derek barley has the chance to open his mouth and say something before Stiles is turning around and disappearing into thin air.

 

_— tbc._


	2. the course of true love never did run smooth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **the course of true love never did run smooth** \- william shakespeare, a midsummer night's dream

****2

When they're gathered at Deaton's is when the realisation finally kicks in. Derek stands in silence, arms crossed and eyes blank as he mentally repeats to himself that Stiles is  _alive_.

No one says anything. No one can. They're all stock-still, some still bleeding from the wounds sluggishly healing. Even Deaton says nothing, not questioning the silence as he cleans the cuts on Allison's arms.

Derek never thought this day would happen. It's been over five years. He had lost the hope and dream of Stiles coming back because the realisation that he was dead had finally settled in. He'd finally accepted that he was gone, that he wasn't coming home. He was finally coming to terms with the idea that he was healing, that he was slowly but surely doing what Stiles would have wanted.

He rolls the blue crystal between his fingers, still and always around his neck on the silver chain. Stiles' necklace.

"I'm going to consider that everyone's silence means I wasn't the only one who saw him," Isaac finally says, and Derek doesn't even have it in him to glare at the beta for the comment.

"This can't be happening," Scott whispers, so quiet Derek barely catches it from where he stands next to the wolf. "This  _isn't_  happening."

"Stiles is alive," Erica says, and it's like the seconds the words drop from her lips, everything freezes all over again.

Derek can feel the tension in the air crank up, like a dial slammed to extreme. He feels Scott stiffen next to him. He feels his wolf shift inside him, snarling and growling.

Deaton's head snaps up, his face, normally morphed in an annoying blank calmness, is stretched in a shocked and confused frown.

"Stiles? Stilinski?"

"Do you know any other Stiles'?" Jackson snarks, and Derek wants to snap at him because now is  _not_  the time to be sarcastic.

Silence settles over them again, and this time it's Scott who breaks it.

"We should tell the sheriff," he says.

"I've already texted him," Lydia replies, and Derek finally finds the energy to glare.

"You did what?" He snarls.

"He has a right to know, Derek!" Lydia instantly defends, "It's his son!"

"Christ almighty," Peter curses, pinching the bridge of his nose in despair. "This generation is doomed."

"You told him over _text?"_  Derek snaps, ignoring his uncles comments, despite the fact that he's right. Telling a father his son is alive after five years of being dead is not something you say over  _text message!_

Lydia's face finally dawns realisation, but it's too late. The door bursts open moments later and none-other than Sheriff Stilinski is stumbling through.

"Where is he?" He asks, voice high with hysteria. "Where is my son?"

"He's gone," Erica says. 

The sheriff's eyes look like they're going to bulge out of his head. "You. . . he's gone? What do you mean he's gone?! You said—"

"He's alive," Peter interrupts, John gaping at him like he spoke a different language. "But he didn't stay."

"You let him leave?!"

"We didn't have a choice," Scott stresses, looking panicked and terrified. "John, you have to believe us. He came out of nowhere and then just vanished!"

"He. . ." John breaths, looking a decade older in only a few moments. He runs a hand through his thinning hair. "Stiles is alive?"

He says it like a question, as if he can't quite comprehend what he's saying, what he's being told.

Derek understands exactly how he feels, and he saw Stiles with his own eyes. It all feels like an awful dream, a nightmare he's about to wake up from in a cold sweat.

He can still feel the presence of when Stiles stood close to him, the electricity in the air as he forced up a shield with his hands, saving Derek and protecting the pack. He's still as selfless as before, Derek realises, only now he isn't as defenceless.

"Is it possible for Stiles to have magic?" Derek asks, recalling the events.

Deaton looks surprised, but also like he was expecting this. "Yes, I believe so. Stiles showed true potential of having a spark when I knew him. He manipulated mountain ash, which was the first sign."

"I agree," Peter adds, and the pack turn to him in surprise. "Stiles always showed hints of magic. He was never as fragile as a human, but we were just too busy to realise it."

"Stiles can't be magic," Scott shakes his head. "No. This can't be. Stiles is human, he would have told me otherwise."

"Most magic users aren't normally aware they have magic until their far into adult years. It's unusual for anyone under the age 25 to show hints of magic, let alone have full-blown powers," Deaton explains.

"Which means Stiles is far more powerful than anyone can imagine," Peter muses, grinning like he knew this was coming.

"Are you seriously suggesting Stiles is magic?" Scott asks. "Stiles is human. He's always. . . been. . . human."

The words fall flat as realisation begins to dawn on the young wolf, eyes unfocusing as if he's trying to think back, to remember and see anything that might possibly suggest Stiles' fate.

"What happened in the forest that suggested to you all that Stiles has magic or that kind of power?" Deaton asks, and Peter takes on the task of explaining Stiles' forcefields, throwing the wolves across the floor and shooting light of his palms, all with the bland, patronising tone Peter uses best.

"I see," Deaton replies slowly, taking it all in like an absorbing sponge. "It wouldn't surprise me to see Stiles having a spark or a power as such. He showed enough potential and hints when he was here, and not just in the example of magical ability. I always imagined Stiles was going to become the emissary of this pack, and I was preparing myself to begin his training when he died."

"But he's not dead," John says. "My son isn't dead."

He says it like the words are lies as soon as they come out, repeating them as a clarification to himself, verbal proof. Derek doesn't blame him in the slightest. He's just as shell-shocked.

"What are we going to do about them?" Jackson asks, nodding towards the twins, who lay unconscious on the metal tables where they had been left after being carried in. The change of subject isn't mentioned, but Derek thinks everyone is slightly thankful for it.

"We should take them back to the house," Peter says. "We can contain them in the basement, wait until they're awake and question them."

"What are we meant to ask them?" Scott asks, and Peter rolls his eyes aggressively.

"What do you think, Scott? They're part of the alpha pack,"

"Do you think they'll really talk to us?" Isaac asks, sounding as fragile as everyone feels.

"They'll have to," Derek says. "We won't give them a choice."

"Are you going to kill them?" Scott asks, accusingly.

Derek doesn't reply, but mostly because he doesn't know the answer to that. He doesn't like killing. It's never been something he's comfortable with. He's a predator, but he doesn't have to be a killer - just as his mother always said. He only kills if he really has to, if someone he cares about, someone in the pack is threatened or in danger. It's a last resort, but it  _is_  a resort.

"Only if we have to," Peter replies instead, and when Derek meets his eyes, he nods seriously.

"Do you know what Stiles did to them?" Lydia asks Deaton, who's putting away his washed medical tools that he used to stitch up Allison's arm, the girl moving to Scott's side.

"Can you describe what happened exactly?" Deaton asks.

"He just. . . kind of made this blue light with his palm. It hit the twins in the chest, and it flew them back," Scott explains, waving his hand around, reminding Derek painfully of Stiles.

"They acted like they were being electrocuted," Erica adds.

Deaton hums. "It seems like a simple blast of power. They should wake up in the morning. It doesn't look like there are any burn marks, so we shouldn't have to worry that they were physically electrocuted."

He pulls back the scorched and torn t-shirt of one of the twins, looking at his plain chest - no burns, no bruises or marks. There's soot on their chest, but when Deaton traces the tip of his finger through it, it comes off like dust, the skin underneath unharmed.

"Alright," Derek says. "I want everyone to go home, get some rest. We'll take the twins back to the house, and I want everyone to meet there in the morning."

Scott and Peter help him take the first twin outside, wrists and ankles bound despite their unconsciousness. The dump the first wolf into the trunk of the car.

"I'll go and get the other one," Peter says, walking back inside.

Derek leans against the car and breaths in the cool, fresh evening air. And then he notices something.

On the edge of the car park, someone stands in the shadows. The dim streetlight that illuminates the parking lot shines down on him, lighting half of his face from under the hood over his head.

"Stiles?" Scott calls.

Derek wants to reach out. He's so close, yet so far. It's like a punch to his gut when Stiles doesn't say anything, his face half in the shadows of his hood. Derek can see him. He can see the shadow of his gaunt cheeks, the detailed length of his eyelashes. Stiles just stares, and then he's turning, stepping into the darkness away from them.

Derek is running before he's thinking about it, sprinting across the car park like a flicker, Scott and Isaac on his heels. He dashes through the clearing in the trees, exactly where Stiles had been. His scent floods his nose, dark and musky, but dotted with peppermint and fresh rain. It's completely Stiles, but it stops exactly at the tree line.

"Stiles!" He shouts, but it's too late.

Stiles is gone again.

 

Weeks go by, and nothing else happens. Stiles is merely a face in their minds and a voice ringing distantly in their ears. They get Danny to look at the towns surveillance and CCTV scanning all the camera footage and transcribing it so that if Stiles' face shows up, it will alert them. He finds nothing, Stiles is like a ghost in the town and nothing at all seems to resemble his appearance. They track the entire preserve for scent, but there's nothing but the lingering scent of the alpha pack and a sitting buzz of electricity - that's the only sign there was any magic at all that night. Everywhere they look, everyone who looks, they come up with nothing.

Stiles has vanished again.

In the mean time, Aiden and Ethan wake up the day after they last saw Stiles, tied up in the Hale house basement. They refuse to say anything, refuse to speak a word about the alpha pack. They don't result to violence, Derek doesn't allow it. Peter suggests they  _make_  them talk, but Derek, and most of the pack, agree that if they induce pain and torture, they're no better than the alpha pack themselves.

No one can get them to talk. It's almost a week, to the point that the pack are seriously considering other options, when Derek overhears Ethan talking to Aiden.

"This could be our chance, Aiden," Ethan is saying, voice hushed as if he's avoiding everyone above from hearing. "This could be our chance to escape."

Derek is a second away from snapping, his wolf howling in fury at what Ethan is suggesting. Those twins won't be escaping on his watch.

"Don't be stupid, Ethan," Aiden growls. "We're not saying anything."

"We could get out. Escape the alpha pack— escape  _Deucalion_ ," Ethan stresses the alphas name, desperation lacing his tone.

"Stop it," Aiden snaps. "We're not saying anything, Ethan. We're with the alpha pack. We're with Deucalion."

Later that day, Derek brings Ethan out of the basement. He drags the young alpha outside, telling his own pack to stay inside and not to interfere.

He tosses Ethan off the porch, the wolf stumbling and tumbling. He lands on his knees, wrists still tied behind his back. He looks over his shoulder at Derek, who stands on the porch stairs.

"You're free to go."

Ethan looks at him with shock, clear as day. He stumbles to his feet, turning to face the alpha on the porch fully.

"What?"

"You're free to go back to the alphas," Derek repeats.

"Wh-what?" Ethan stammers, voice wavering, but not with relief.

"We're letting you go. You're free. Go back to Deucalion," Derek says.

Ethan gapes, mouth opening but he slams it shut almost straight away. He looks at the clearing in the trees, then back to the house.

"You don't want to, do you?" Derek asks.

It spills out of Ethan like verbal vomit then. He tells Derek how they came about the alpha pack, how Deucalion made them kill their own alphas because he promised them a better life, to be stronger and more valued than they were. He tells the Hale alpha about their position in their old pack and the alpha pack, how the only thing that's changed is the colour of their eyes.

"We're the pack bitches," Ethan says, looking sadder by the minute. "We're not part of the pack anymore. They just use us. I don't. . . we can't go back."

Derek doesn't know what to say to that. He takes his time registering it, chewing on the information he was just thrown. The alpha twins are evidently undervalued in the pack, and while Derek is in no position to feel a smudge of sympathy for them, he is also human.

He takes Ethan back downstairs with Aiden before confronting his pack, repeating what Ethan told him despite the fact that they all probably heard themselves.

"If we help them, then maybe they'll help us against the alphas," Scott suggests.

They don't make any final decisions then. Ethan and Aiden stay in the basement, the only time they interact with the pack is when one of them goes down, every morning and every evening, to give them some food and water. The pack are undecided as to how to approach the situation, so Derek decides to leave it. They have bigger problems to solve, after all.

 

The pack try to go back to normalcy. And by that, Derek means college work, food shopping and everyday activities. John goes back to work, runs the town and keeps the crime under wraps while Derek pops in on random shifts and spends the rest of his time wasting the minutes of the day away.

It doesn't sit well with any of them, but they try. It is, however, a huge distraction knowing that your no-longer-dead-packmate is running around after being 'dead' for five years.

But, they do try, which is why Allison and Lydia find themselves at the high school after hours, ticking into the late evening on a Friday. Despite them no longer being high school students, they managed to get permission off the school to go into the library after hours and use the books and facilities. They're revising for the upcoming exams, though both of them are only half-heartedly reading the words on the page.

Around them, the school is empty and dark. Night has fallen minutes before, the sun finally dropping and the light fading out. Silence surrounds them, until it's brutally broken.

Both girls' heads snap up when a loud, groaning sound rings out through the empty library. It comes from outside the library, like a slam but only harsher, louder.

"What was that?" Lydia asks, looking at the door before flicking her eyes to her best friend opposite her.

"I don't know," Allison murmurs, voice hushed as she rises from her seat. "Stay here."

Lydia gapes, watching Allison round the table and walk silently towards the closed library doors.

"Allison!" She hisses. "Allison, don't leave me!"

The huntress doesn't reply, so Lydia stands, chasing after her in her clipping heels.

Allison sends Lydia a glance, unreadable, as she hesitantly grabs the door handle and inches it open. The corridor is dark and empty when they look out.

"Come on," Allison whispers, stepping out of the library.

"Allison!" Lydia hisses again. She has goosebumps on her bare arms, and it's not from the cold. She follows the huntress into the school hallway, standing close and wrapping her arms around herself.

Their shoed-feet are silent as they walk. Every now and then, Lydia's foot lands harder than she intends, her heel casting a sharp and sudden echo in the eery school.

"There's no one here," Allison concludes.

"Then what was that sound?" Lydia counters, Allison shakes her head, opening her mouth to say something—

"Hello, girls."

They spin around, shoes squealing on the laminate flooring.

Kali stands a few feet away from then, her figure merely a black silhouette in the dim, shadowed light. Her red eyes glowing like ruby gems. She opens her mouth, lips stretching to reveal her pearly-white fangs, large and terrifying.

"Run," Allison whispers. They're slowly inching back, taking small steps away from the alpha. "Run!"

They both turn, breaking a sprint. Lydia hears Kali let out a sadistic cackle before the sound of more footsteps follow. Lydia's heart races in her chest so fast, punching her rib cage like a boxer. She can't run fast in the heels, steps chopping and ankles aching.

They round a sharp turn, heading down another corridor. Kali's footsteps are getting louder as she gets closer. Lydia knows there is no way they're going to outrun her. Allison must suspect the same thing, as a moment later, she's skidding to a stop in front of Lydia, leaping towards a classroom door and retching it open.

"Get in!" She shouts, and Lydia goes, running through the threshold. Locking themselves in a closed room probably isn't the smartest idea, but it will do until they can get help.

Allison lets out a scream behind her, breaking Lydia out of her thoughts. She spins around in time to see Allison fall to the floor, Kali's clawed hand wrapped around her ankle. Lydia can barley get a shout out before Allison is being dragged across the floor, out of the classroom and back into the hallway. Allison's fingers are clawing the floor, her feet kicking in hysterics.

Lydia doesn't get a chance to stop her before there is the cracking sound of a snapping bone and Allison is letting out another scream.

"No!" Lydia cries, running forward. Allison is withering on the floor, but Lydia doesn't have a chance to get to her before Kali is appearing in the doorway.

Lydia backs away, tears rolling down her cheeks. "Leave us alone," she pleads. "Leave us alone!"

Kali laughs, stalking with swayed steps towards her. "I've always liked the feisty ones," she says, and a moment later, her hand is shooting up, clawed fingers wrapping tightly around Lydia's throat. "They're so much more satisfying to put down."

The banshee sputters and chokes as her airway is abruptly cut off. She tries to scream, to do  _something_ , but she can't. Kali's grip get's tighter as tears well up and spill from Lydia's eyes. She claws and scratches at the hand around her throat but get's no avail. The attempt is futile.

Kali laughs at her weak struggles, cocking her head to the side like she's looking at a child having a tantrum. "How can you even call yourself a banshee? You're a embarrassment to the supernatural name. You're pathetic. Weak. You're merely a human with a loud scream."

Lydia shakes her head. She can feel herself trembling. Black spots dance her vision as the world sways and tips. She's dizzy, a pulsating drum behind her eyes.

"Can you sense your own death?" Kali asks. Her tone is taunting.

She can feel something. Something is coming. Her eyes begin to roll back, her knees go weak and she sags in the tight hold. Everything is blurring out.

Suddenly, there's a 'woosh' of air and someone is standing next to Kali. Neither of them have a moment to react before the incomer is tackling Kali, slamming their hands into her side.

Kali goes flying, crashing into all the tables and chairs, skidding across the floor. Lydia drops as soon as her hand is gone. She doesn't hit the ground, arms catch her, soft and warm, cradling her. She sucks in a desperate breath, relieving her burning lungs. Her throat screams and shreds, the world spins and blurs. 

A hand rubs her back, comforting her as she fights for her breath. She can hear the tables and chairs shifting and panics, her eyes snapping open.

Kali is rising, red eyes glowing with fury and anger. Lydia manages to raise her head that feels too heavy on her neck and look at the person who saved her.

Stiles meets her eyes, flashing her a smile, but doesn't say anything as Kali's roar tears through the silence. He moves Lydia so she's leaning against the teachers desk, still catching her stolen breath.

Stiles gets to his feet in time for Kali to leap at him. Lydia lets out a scream of fright, warning and terror. Stiles is going to die. He's going to get killed—

Stiles ducks Kali's swiping claws, kicking her in the knee as he goes. She falters, giving Stiles a moment as he straightens up, spins on one foot and uses the other one to kick her hard in the chest as he comes back around.

Kali stumbles back, and Stiles uses that moment to look back down at Lydia, crouching in front of her.

"Are you okay?" He asks, hands cupping her cheeks. In the pale light of the moon shining through the windows, Lydia can see everything.

She nods shakily. Her throat is raw and pulsating, but there are bigger problems.

Stiles rises and turns around to face Kali. The alpha is standing, huffing like a raging bull. Her clawed hands are tense at her sides.

"I'm going to give you a chance to leave," Stiles says. He sounds different, deeper, stronger. "Find you're pack and leave Beacon Hills."

Kali laughs at him. "Or what? You're going to get out your magic wand and make me disappear?"

"No," Stiles replies, voice calm and neutral. "I will kill you."

Kali's smug smile drops a notch. "Red," she whispers.

Lydia can't see Stiles' face, but she can imagine the eat-shitting grin he's wearing as Kali's face daunts a sudden realisation.

Red? Who the hell is Red?

The question flies from Lydia's mind when suddenly, Kali and Stiles are jumping at each other. They move so fast they're practically blurs, Lydia can barely keep up.

Stiles dodges most of Kali's blows, some of them catching. He gets hits in the ribs, stomach, head, but he doesn't back down. He lands some of his own, making Kali grunt and gasp. Stiles suddenly raises his hands, palms splayed out. A blue lights shoots from them, blasting Kali in the chest. She flies back with a startled scream, smashing through the classroom window and falling, disappearing from sight.

Everything goes silent after they hear her body thud on the ground below. The only thing to be heard is Stiles' heavy breathing. The teen rises from where he drops after the blast, striding towards the broken window and looking out. Kali's form lays on the ground below, still.

"How high up are we?" Stiles asks. His voice is hoarse and croaky, Lydia names it down to the tiring fight he just endured.

"Three floors," Lydia croaks. Talking hurts, she realises with a wince.

Stiles nods, still looking down at the floor. He turns around, eyes fleeting over Lydia before he's moving quickly out the door, crouching by Allison, who's leaning up against the lockers. Lydia climbs shakily to her feet, stumbling out in follow.

"Are you okay?" She asks, tears welling up in her eyes again.

Allison nods. "I'm fine. Are you?"

Lydia nods. She's shaken and hurting, but she's alive.

"It's a clean break," Stiles says, hands cradling Allison's leg. Allison winces when she shifts against the lockers, letting out a startled gasp when bolts of pain shoot up her leg.

"Hold still," Stiles continues. He has both hands on Allison's leg, "This is going to feel weird."

Allison nods just as a white light glows from Stiles' hands, wrapping around Allison's legs like vines. Lydia gasps, watching in amazement and wonder as the lights glow, dimming every other  moment like a pulse.

Stiles' eyes are closed, and when the lights fade out, he opens them with a sigh.

Allison moves her leg, a small jerk to begin with before she's moving it fully. "You. . . you healed it," she murmurs, eyes wide.

"Allison!" Someone shouts. Scott, Lydia instantly recognises. There's approaching footsteps before Derek, Scott and Isaac are rounding the corner and sprinting down the corridor. They slow when they see Stiles, eyes widening.

Stiles is still crouched beside Allison, looking at the new wolves. He's breathing hard and shallow still.

Scott's eyes snap to the girl on the floor, still leaning against the lockers.

"Allison!" He shouts in fright, breaking the last distance between them. Stiles get's up in time for Scott to take his place, crouching beside his girl friend, taking her hand. "What happened? Are you okay? Are you hurt?"

"I'm fine. I'm okay, Scott," Allison rushes.

"What happened?" Derek demands, eyeing them all. Lydia doesn't mention how his eyes linger on Stiles a moment too long.

Lydia looks at him too, and something catches her eye.

"Stiles, you're. . . you're bleeding," she whispers.

Stiles looks down at his side, his t-shirt torn and drenched in a deep red, as if someone threw a bottle of wine at him. Kali must have caught him with her claws. Stiles sways, letting out a choked breath before his knees go weak, legs buckling suddenly.

Derek catches him before he can hit the ground, darting to his side. He watches as Stiles' eyes roll back, his skin paling. Stiles' weak and shallow breaths are quiet in his ears, his slow heartbeat a contrasting thunderous sound.

"Stiles!" He shouts as the teen in his arms goes limp. His stomach fills with dread. He looks back up at Lydia. "What the hell happened?!"

"Kali found us," Allison answers. "She chased us through the corridors and we tried to hide in a classroom but she was too fast. She broke my leg and tried to suffocate Lydia. Stiles came out of nowhere and fought her."

"You're leg isn't broken," Scott mumbles.

Allison smiles, squeezing his hand. "I know. Stiles healed it."

Derek looks down at the unconscious boy in his arms. He can't even call Stiles a boy anymore. It's been five and a half years. Stiles is 21 now. He's far from a boy.

"Where is Kali now?" Isaac asks.

"Stiles blasted her out of the window," Allison replies. Isaac goes into the classroom, peering over the window ledge where the glass used to be.

He looks back at them with a frown. "She's gone. She was definitely there though. There's blood on the courtyard."

"Are you okay?" Derek asks Lydia, who's eyes have unfocused as she stares in fear at the broken window.

She jumps, body tensing. Her eyes meet Derek, and they scream fear. She nods anyways.

 

They take Stiles to Deaton's. He's still unconscious when Derek lays him gentle down on the table, shirt soaked in blood and skin white. Derek can't resist stroking back the dark hair that falls on his forehead, feeling his cool, soft skin beneath his finger tips. He feels his wolf purr inside him at the contact. Something he's been craving for almost six years.

Derek rips off the remainder of Stiles' t-shirt after they pull off his jacket, and when the last bits of bloody fabric fall away, Derek's breath hitches in his throat.

Stiles is. . . different. He's thin, but his stomach is lined and shadowed in a fine graze of muscle, stomach flat. His arms are toned, different from the skin and bone they used to be. His hair, previously buzz cut has grown out, unruly and messy on top. His face has matured too, loosing the last remains of baby fat in his cheeks in exchange for high cheekbones supported by a hollow alcove. He's lost his youth, but he's also still as gorgeous as Derek remembers.

His arms are painted black with runes, stark against his pale skin. Celtic symbols and spirals pattern his arms in breath-taking patterns. Derek traces one of them with his finger.

His eyes are drawn to Stiles' stomach, where he can see scars and marks from underneath the fresh glistening blood.

Deaton looks more than surprised to find Stiles knocked out on his table, but he doesn't say anything as he starts cleaning the wound and wiping off the blood. He asks what happened, and when Allison recites it, he does stiff.

"He _healed_ you?" Deaton echoes.

Allison nods.

"It would explain why he didn't notice he was wounded. The adrenaline probably kept the pain masked, and when he drained his magic to heal you, he was probably too tired to notice," Deaton explains.

"So Stiles does have magic," Scott whispers. "Fuck!" He curses abruptly, rubbing a hand down his face and slouching against the table he was leaning on, "I can't believe this is happening."

Deaton begins to stitch up Stiles' side. There are three jagged lines reaching all the way from his ribs to his hipbone. Without all the blood caking his torso, Derek and the pack can see all the scars and marks on Stiles' skin so much clearer.

Derek wants to whimper at the sight of all the pain inflicted on his mate. He takes Stiles' hand, cold and curled limply, and see's if there's any pain for him to take. There's nothing, but he still doesn't let go of his hand. 

Deaton stitches Stiles up quickly, precise and clean. Blood continues to ooze out of the unconscious body until the last stitch is sealed. Deaton has jewel-drops of sweat beading his forehead when he's done, despite the cool temperature of the room. The wound was big, and the constant stream of blood had them all in panic, probably more so for Deaton, the weight sitting on his shoulders.

The vet excuses himself when he's done, saying Stiles might need a blood transfusion, and tells Scott there are bags in the back (apparently Deaton has got himself some incase of supernatural injuries). After Deaton leaves, Derek feels all the energy from his seep out like a released tap. He slouches at the table side, hand still clutching Stiles' like a lifeline. He rubs a thumb back and forth over the back of Stiles' palm, feeling the smooth, cool skin underneath. He can hear the steadying rhythm of Stiles' heart, stronger now but slow with sleep. 

Derek can't take his eyes off of him. He can't fantom, can't believe that Stiles is really _here_. It all feels too much like a dream.

The night rolls on. Derek stays sitting beside Stiles, Scott and Allison curl up on the floor against the wall. Derek doesn't even wonder what Lydia is doing until the door is bursting open behind him and he turns in time to see a flurry of red hair disappear out into the reception. 

He frowns. He doesn't want to leave Stiles, but Lydia is his pack and he feels a need to know if she's okay.

"Stay with him," he tells Scott and Allison as he follows Lydia out.

Lydia is standing in the middle of the room, face hidden in her hands.

"Are you okay?" Derek breaks the silence.

Lydia nods.

"Lydia," Derek warns, stepping forward slowly.

The banshee sighs, turning to face him, shaking her head as tears well in her eyes and she squeezes them shut. "I. . . I can't tell you."

Derek waits a moment before he replies. "We're pack, Lydia. You know you can tell me anything."

Lydia blinks at him, thinning her lips and sucking in a shaky breath through her nose. A tear runs down her pink cheek.

"Kali," Lydia whispers.

"Is it your throat?" Derek presses. The bruises look painful, and if the raspiness of her throat is anything to go by, it must hurt as bad as it looks. He'd take her pain, but Derek understands the urges of touching a wolfs mate and despite her and Jackson not being officially mated, he knows the other wolf won't appreciate it.

"No. She. . ." she swallows audibly. "She said somethings back at school."

Derek frowns harder. "What did she say?"

Lydia closes her eyes tightly again, more tears spilling out of the corners.

"Lydia," Derek repeats - he's not good in these situations. He's gotten better, and anyone would admit that, but he's still not great at comfort to those he's too tense to touch.

"She told me being I'm an embarrassment to the supernatural. That I'm not a real banshee. She called me weak, and pathetic," Lydia admits, a sob catching her as she covers her mouth with her hand.

Derek sighs, but not out of exasperation. "Lydia, she was taunting you."

"I know!" Lydia snaps, furiously wiping her cheeks. Her makeup has run even more, making the already dark smudges of smear further around her eyes. "Don't you think I know she was taunting me? Okay, Derek, I know! I just. . . what she said. . ."

Derek nods, "You can't stop thinking about it."

Lydia nods back, looking down at the floor to hide the rolling tears. She hiccups.

"You'll always be essential to this pack, Lydia. You're the brain, the leader when I'm too weak to lead. You've helped so much over the years, and nothing Kali, or anyone, can tell you should change your memory of that," Derek says. "We wouldn't the Hale pack without Lydia Martin, the powerful and  _strong_  banshee."

"Thank you, Derek."

"Well, I've been meaning to make it up to you when you helped me after Stiles. . . y'know,"

"I know,"

"You okay now?"

Lydia nods. "Yeah. I'm fine."

"Good," Derek smiles slightly, turning around and heading back into the main room where Stiles still lays stock still on the metal table, eyes closed and skin white.

Scott is at his side, hand on his shoulder, fingers under his best friends shirt and veins swirling black as he takes Stiles' unconscious pain.

He looks up when Derek and Lydia come back in. Behind him, Derek hears Allison asking Lydia if she's okay, but he doesn't interfere.

"There isn't a lot to take," Scott says, meaning the pain. "He seems to be alright, all things considered."

It's a small relief, but still a relief to hear and see that Stiles isn't in immense pain. At least he can have some peace now, if the tired circles under his eyes mean anything.

"Okay, I want you all to go home, get some rest," Derek starts, and when they start to protest, he holds a hand up and flashes his red eyes. "We can't all stay here. Go back to the house, you can come back in the morning after you've slept and eaten."

"We'll bring something for you," Scott replies, and Derek nods.

The pack slowly go, looking at Stiles like he'll be gone the next time they're back. Derek is determined not to let that happen as he takes a seat next to the metal table.

When they're finally alone, he takes Stiles' hand in his, cringing at the freezing coldness of his skin.

He doesn't remember falling asleep.

 

_— tbc._


	3. love is a spirit all compact of fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **love is a spirit all compact of fire** \- william shakespeare, venus and adonis

****3

Derek wakes to the sound of grunts and shuffling. His eyes snap open, leaping up from the chair. His claws are coming out, ready to attack and protect, when his eyes fall on the body on the table.

Stiles is sitting up, awake and moving, reaching for his jacket on the table beside his own.

"What are you doing?" Derek finds himself asking.

"I need to leave," Stiles replies with a grunt, slipping off the table and standing on shaky legs, the jacket in his hands. "I need to g-get. . . to Jason, he can heal me. I. . . I can't heal myself at the m-moment."

"No," Derek snaps, grabbing the jacket from Stiles' hands and snatching it away. "You can't leave. You can't  _keep_  leaving, Stiles! We have spent years thinking you were dead, mourning over your death and grieving, and then you were back but you left. You keep leaving, Stiles, and it isn't fair. It isn't fair on the pack, and it isn't fair on your dad!"

_It isn't fair on me._

Stiles stares at him for a long moment, pale face drawn and mouth open a fraction. He's trembling where he's leaning against the table, looking at Derek with a mixed of unreadable expressions.

Derek almost feels embarrassed for his outburst, but it needed to be said. Every time Stiles leaves, he isn't just hurting John, but he's hurting the pack, he's hurting  _Derek_. Everyone in the town grieved Stiles' death, and he just wishes Stiles could understand how much it hurts when he disappears.

Stiles sighs, breaking the silence.

"Fine," he whispers, voice cracking. "Then I need to phone Jason so he can come here."

Derek nods, and watches Stiles push off the table to reach for his jacket. Derek see's the shakes in his lean frame before he hears the hitch of his breath. Stiles stumbles, hand reaching out for some support. Derek is leaping forward, catching Stiles around the waist just as his eyes flutter closed as he goes boneless in Derek's arms. 

The alpha sighs, looking up at the ceiling and cursing the heavens above. He lifts Stiles up, reminding himself to get Stiles a decent meal because no 21 year old should be that light, and places him back on the table. He folds up his own jacket in a makeshift pillow and places it under Stiles' head.

He's looking worse than before; skin ashen and dotted with beads of glistening sweat. His breaths are coming in pants, limbs shaking with fine tremors.

Derek grabs Stiles' phone and is surprised to find that there are fourteen missed calls from 'Selina' and twenty-one from 'Jason'. He opens the phone and calls Jason back.

The phone rings twice before the call is answered.

"Mitch," the voice that crackles through sounds pissed already. "Where the hell are you?"

"Stiles can't talk right now," Derek replies.

The other end of the phone is silent for a short moment before a deadly threatening voice replies, "Why are you using Mitch's phone?"

Derek sputters in reply. Mitch? He stares at Stiles' unconscious body, mouth agape.

"Where is Mitch?" Jason's voice comes blaring through. "What have you done with him?"

"Nothing," Derek growls, finally finding his voice. "He's at the Vet office in Beacon Hills. He's unconscious, he said he needs you to come and heal him."

"Fuck," Jason swears. There's some more muffled cursing and movement on the other side of the phone. "Okay, uh. Beacon Hills, huh?" He cuts off with a bitter laugh. "I'm gonna fucking kill him. I'll be there in ten."

And then the phone call cuts out. Derek stares at the black screen, still gaping.

He turns to Stiles, sighing as he steps up to the table and runs a hand through Stiles' sweaty locks.

"What the hell have you been up to?" He whispers to himself.

Moments later, the vet door is opening. Derek turns, expecting it to be whoever this Jason person is, but instead it's the pack, half of them dressed in pyjamas and looking still half asleep despite the concern in their faces.

"What are you doing here?" Derek asks.

"We felt your panic," Scott says. "We thought. . ."

He doesn't need to finish, they all know the rest of the sentence. Derek nods, understanding. They probably felt all of his emotions through the pack bonds from the bracelets.

"Stiles woke up," Derek begins, and all of the pack gasp and open their mouths to speak, but Derek cuts them off before they can. "He was trying to leave, but he passed out before he could. He was trying to get to someone called Jason, so I phoned him on his phone and he's on his way here."

"Who's Jason?" Isaac frowns.

Derek shakes his head. "I have no clue, but he called Stiles 'Mitch'."

Scott's eyebrows furrow together. "That's what they called him in the preserve with the alphas."

"What?" Derek turns to them.

"Mitch. That's what that guy called Stiles in the preserve the night he first came back," Scott explains, and Derek nods. He remembers now, he just can't figure out why Stiles would call himself Mitch.

The vet door swings open again and the man from the woods stands in the doorway. He's dressed in all black: black boots, black trousers and a long black pea coat. His brown hair is tinged blonde at the ends, swooped back like a prince and cut short at the sides. He has a thin layer of dark stubble on his cheeks and chin, blue eyes piercing and hard. His eyes fall on Stiles' immediately.

"Fucking hell," he curses, marching through the crowd of wolves without hesitation and further into the room. He strips off his jacket, placing it to the side as he approaches Stiles on the table, shaking his head. "What happened?"

It takes the pack a moment to realise he's talking to them.

"He was fighting an alpha," Derek explains. "They caught him in the side with his claws."

"Bloody hell," he curses again. "You're a bloody idiot," he says to Stiles.

He begins to unwrap the gauze on Stiles' side, the white fabric stained red despite the stitches keeping the wound closed.

Jason sighs when he see's it, shaking his head, and running a hand through his short, flopping light brown hair.

"Why hasn't he healed himself?" He asks.

"He said he's too weak," Derek replies.

"He healed my leg earlier," Allison adds.

Jason curses again, looking down on Stiles like a disappointed but worried father.

He pushes up the sleeves of his long black t-shirt and presses his hands onto Stiles' side. Moments later, they're glowing.

The pack watch in wonder as white vines wrap around Stiles torso, just like they did on Allison's leg. It feels like hours, but is actually only minutes, before Jason is slouching and the white light fades. When he takes his hands away, the large claw gashes are merely three red lines.

"Woah," Scott murmurs, eyes wide.

Jason lets out a shaky breath, closing his eyes for a long moment.

"Are you okay?" Isaac asks.

Jason nods, opening his eyes. "Yes. Healing just takes a lot out of us."

"Is he going to be okay now?" Lydia asks. Her voice is still croaking, her throat black and blue. She's tucked closely into Jackson's side, eyes red like she's been crying.

Jason looks at her for a long moment, probably seeing all the bruises. Eventually, he nods. "He'll be fine, for now. He still needs to heal more, but I can't do anymore for him here."

"Why do you call him Mitch?" Jackson asks.

"Because I can't say his real name and that was the closest thing to it," Jason replies, slipping on his jacket again.

"Why didn't you just stick with Stiles?"

"Because Stiles died in a car crash five years ago. I think it would have been a bit suspicious if another Stiles popped up in a different country, with the same face too. 'Stiles’ isn't a very common name."

"Does he remember his name is Stiles?" Scott asks, worry stricken in his tone.

"Of course he does," Jason replies heatedly. "He hasn't been brainwashed. Now, if you excuse us, we're leaving."

"What?"

"You can't take him!"

"No!"

Jason rolls his eyes at the packs protests and Derek can feel his hackles rise.

"Mitch is going to be passed out the rest of the night," Jason says. "He isn't fully healed. I’ve just done enough so he isn't in any danger anymore. He needs to be with Selina, she can help him more than you can."

" _Stiles_  isn't going anywhere," Derek growls, stepping up so he's face to face with the magic-user. He’d emphasised Stiles' name because he's sick of hearing Jason call him 'Mitch'.

Jason sighs exasperatedly. "I'll bring him back here tomorrow morning. You can talk to him then, alright? I'll make sure he comes back but for now, he needs to heal and the best place for him to do that is at the house with Selina."

"You'll bring him back in the morning," Derek says, and it’s clear that it isn't a question. It's a demand, and Derek adds a snarl to his tone to make sure Jason understands.

The older male rolls his eyes. "Yes, but I'll have you know, it's Mi— _Stiles_ who's been choosing to stay away for all these years."

Scott frowns, shoulders slumping. "What do you mean?"

"Ask him tomorrow," Jason replies, before he's grabbing Stiles' jacket and wrapping it around him and then scooping him up into his arms. "Now, if you wouldn't mind getting out of the way. He may he light, but it doesn't make it any less difficult."

"Don't come back here," Derek says. "Go to the house in the Preserve."

Jason nods, huffing. "Fine!"

The pack part like a door and Jason passes them, not looking back as he walks out the door with Stiles in his arms. Moments later, there's a hum of an engine and the car is leaving the car park.

They stand in silence. Derek doesn't quite know what to say, how to react.

"Do you think they'll come back?" Scott asks.

Derek doesn't reply because honestly, he doesn't know.

He just doesn't know.

 

Derek stands in the Hale house kitchen just five hours later. He's gotten barely any sleep. He spent most of the short night tossing and turning, craving for the feeling of Stiles' presence and his skin under Derek's. He craved the feeling of him, the warmth and the sound.

As he stands, leaning against the kitchen counter, he looks at his pack. They're tired and worn, all feeling the same as Derek. Lydia is wearing a scarf to hide the bruises on her throat and is thankful it's October - so it doesn't seem too out of the ordinary. Sheriff Stilinski and Melissa are with them now as well, all caught up and both seriously pissed they weren't told the night before when it happened.

The wolves hear the sound of a vacuum, a 'whooshing' sound, before the pack are running out the front door and piling onto the porch. The air around them feels almost static, electric and crackling. Derek ignores it, instead pushing through so he can finally see Stiles.

Derek feels like he can finally breath again.

Stiles is dressed in all black, just like Jason. He's got black skinny jeans that barely grip onto his stick-thin legs, slotted in a pair of worn boots. He has a plain black t-shirt on under his black denim jacket. Derek doesn't know if this is an upgrade from the plaid shirts and graphic tees, but he thinks he likes it.

He does, however, notice the contrasting pallor to Stiles' skin, evident exhaustion in the purple bruises in his under eyes, and how his shoulders are slumped as if he's trying to make himself smaller.

The pair stand a distance away down the drive, both almost unsure if they should come any closer.

"Dad?" Stiles breaks the silence, the word like a hammer to a sheet of glass: shattering and rough.

There's a pregnant pause of silence before John is rushing forward, grabbing Stiles almost roughly and dragging him into a hug. It takes a moment for Stiles to hug back, but when he does, his knuckles go white with how tight he clings to his father.

"Where the hell have you been?" John whispers.

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you," Stiles laughs, voice cracking painfully.

It's minutes before they break apart, and when they do, both Stilinski men have tears in their eyes.

"Are you feeling better?" John asks, looking his son up and down. "The pack told me what happened."

Stiles nods. "Much. Thanks. Almost completely healed."

"Good," John says, and his voice wavers and sways.

Scott is approaching them then, and Derek almost feels worried that they're going to fight by the way Scott's jaw is clenched as he walks down the porch and towards the pair.

Stiles must notice it too, because the smile slips from his face.

"Scott. . ." he starts, but can't finish before Scott is reaching and smashing him into a hug. Stiles hugs back just as hard. Everyone runs then, off the porch and towards them, joining in and hugging Stiles.

Derek doesn't move. Too scared, too worried that if he does he won't be able to control himself. Stiles is his mate, his love and life and he's been gone for years and Derek doesn't think he'll be able to stop himself from rubbing his scent all over the long-lost kid. So he stays, on the porch with Peter, who'd arrived that morning after Derek filled him in.

"Hey, Batman," Erica whispers, tears in her eyes when she finally gets her chance to hug him. Stiles grins at her, eyes wet.

"Good to see you, Catwoman," he replies, pulling the blonde in for a chest-crushing hug.

Lydia punches him in the shoulder before she hugs him, and Isaac whispers almost embarrassingly that he missed Stiles a lot.

After the hugs are over, everyone slowly inches back to the porch.

Stiles nods at Derek and Peter, and they nod back.

"Good to see you’re still alive and kicking, Stiles," Peter says.

"Good to see you’re still alive and creepy," Stiles replies, and they all go inside.

"I see you rebuilt the Hale house," Stiles observes, looking around as they step inside. Derek almost preens at the awe and admiration Stiles looks at the house with.

"Derek designed and built it himself," Erica says. "We all have our own rooms. Even you."

Stiles looks at Derek with a shocked face, smiling softly. "Thanks, man."

"Okay, I'm going going to go and say it. How the hell are you still alive?" Jackson asks, and it's like someone as finally stomped and broken the ice. The elephant in the room has been spotted, the spotlight question brought about.

Stiles swallows audibly, looking down at his feet as he shifts almost uncomfortably.

"I, uh. . . Jason pulled me out after the crash. I hit my head, I passed out not too long after and when I woke up, we were outside Beacon Hills," Stiles explains.

"Why?" Scott asks, looking at Jason, who stands aside from the pack huddled around Stiles. "Why did you pull Stiles out of the crash?"

"Well, aside from being a good citizen, it was because Stiles is the most powerful Archmage we have ever come across," Jason says.

"What's an Archmage?"

"A very powerful magic-user," Jason answers.

"So you're a wizard," Scott clarifies, and then he grins, "That is so cool, bro!"

Stiles laughs, shaking his head. "Yeah. Something like that."

"What happened after the crash?" Allison asks.

"Me and Selina saved him, but we knew he needed to hide his identity so we framed for Stiles Stilinski to die. We took Mit—  _Stiles_ , to a magical doorway in Vegas and healed him, teaching him how to control and use his magic," Jason explains. "We had to keep him secret because his mother was powerful in the magic world and other magic users were beginning to learn his name before Stiles even knew about his magic. The crash was actually caused by a magic user who was going to drain and kill Stiles for his power."

The pack gasp, and Derek feels a pang of panic spark in his chest, hot and sharp. John looks at his son in sadness and fear, but not fear of him,  _for_  him.

"That's why you never came home," Derek realises.

Stiles smiles sadly, nodding. "I'm sorry. I should have come home. I should have told you that I was still alive, but it got to the point that I didn't even know if I'd be welcome back."

"Why wouldn't you be welcome?" John frowns.

"Because I'm dangerous," Stiles replies. "Even with full control of my powers, I'm a supernatural magnet. If I'm here, all kinds of threats and people will come to find me."

John shakes his head. "You're an idiot, son."

Stiles gapes, opening his mouth but John raises his hand to silence him.

"You will  _always_  be welcome here, Stiles," John continues, smiling. "This is your _home_."

Stiles gives him a watery smile before they're hugging again with so much need and desperation, Derek is a moment away from snatching Stiles away and making him hug  _him_  like that.

"I missed you," Stiles says into his fathers shoulder. "I missed all of you."

"We missed you too, buddy," Scott replies. "Everyone did. The whole town turned up at your funeral."

Stiles pulls back from his dad, nodding. "I know. I was there."

Derek's head snaps towards him. He'd been looking at the floor, silently willing his wolf to shut down the urges to pounce on Stiles when the kid said those three deafening words.

"You. . . what?" Scott stammers.

Stiles chuckles, nodding. "I was there. In the back. No one noticed, obviously."

"You. . ." Scott shakes his head. "You attended your own funeral?!"

Stiles barks a laugh. "Yeah, I guess I did. Not all of it, though. After I heard dad's speech I had to get out of there."

John smiles sadly. "I poured my heart out in that speech."

"I know you did," Stiles' smile slipped and he looked down. His scent fell to sadness. "I'm sorry for putting you through that. I didn't. . . you didn't deserve that."

"Stop apologising!" Sheriff Stilinski demands, pulling Stiles into his side again. Stiles practically melts into his father.

After a moment, he asks, "How did you guys know we were at the school?"

"Oh! Our pack bonds," Scott explains. "We have these bracelets—"

"Bracelets?" Stiles interrupts, shock and awe seeping into his tone. "You actually wear them?"

"Yeah, why—. . . did. . . did you. . .?" Scott frowns. Stiles lunges forward, grabbing the alpha by the wrist and retching his sleeve up his forearm, revealing the leather twisted bracelet locked around Scott's wrist.

Stiles stares at it in awe, silent and speechless. 

"Did  _you_  send them to us?" Scott asks.

Stiles nods slowly, seeming almost confused, eyebrows furrowed. He lets go of Scott's wrist, falling back a step. "I can't believe you still wear them."

"Of course we do," Scott replies. "They've protected us. They've helped us— like last night! We knew you were at the school 'cause we could feel Allison and Lydia. We could feel their pain and their panic. It lead us to them."

Stiles is staring at them in shock, breaking out a smile, pleased smile. He looks at Jason, "I can't believe they actually work."

"Stop doubting yourself," Jason replies, also smiling. "We told you they'd work."

"You made them yourself?" Isaac asks.

"I didn't make them, but I casted the spell on them so they formed the proper bonds between you all," Stiles replies.

"What else can you do?" Scott asks, grinning like a child on Christmas morning.

"Too much to say. You've seen us heal, which reminds me," Stiles replies, he looks to Allison, "Your leg okay?"

Allison smiles and nods, "as if it never happened."

Stiles smiles back, nodding, "Good."

"Hey, batman," Erica steps up, linking an arm around Stiles'. "Why don't we show you around, huh? This place is huge!"

Stiles chuckles warily. "Sure."

Derek watches with a warm heart as Erica and Scott take Stiles around the house, the others dispersing so they aren't just standing in the foyer of the mansion.

The alpha see's Jason head back to the front door, opening it silently and stepping out. Derek doesn't know why, but he follows.

"Hi, Selina," Jason greets into the phone. "Yeah, he's fine, with his father and his pack now. . . yes, he's safe. . . no, he's not staying. . ."

"No," Derek interrupts.

Jason looks at him over his shoulder, sighing, "I'll call you back later."

He hangs up, pocketing his phone and slowly turning towards Derek. He looks incredibly bored and smug as he turns. "No, what?"

"You're not taking Stiles," Derek snaps. "He's home now. He stays with us."

"Stiles is still in danger, and therefore all of you are in danger," Jason explains, and Derek wants to cut him, to say that no matter the danger, Stiles stays with them, when Jason adds, "He's still well known and every magic user wants to kill him."

"Why?"

"For his power," Jason replies. "And those who aren't magic, simply want to kill him so they can say they have."

"Why don't you?" Derek asks.

"Because Selina knew his mother, they were close friends and she owes Claudia, therefore she's protecting Stiles. I have no intention to hurt Stiles, or steal his power, despite him being incredibly more powerful than me. He has more power his little finger than I could ever imagine having. But that kind of power is incredibly hard to control and use, and I'll give Stiles credit that he has learnt phenomenally fast," Jason explains.

Derek nods, coming to finally realise how powerful Stiles must be, and how dangerous living must be for him now.

"Thank you," Derek murmurs, adding, "for looking out for him. For protecting him."

Jason laughs, shaking his head. "I wasn't protecting him. It’s been him protecting me."

 

Stiles ends up staying all day. After he's shown the house, reduced to being speechless by the size and complexity of it, he sits down with his dad, being broke the news that they sold the Stilinski family home. Initially, Stiles is angry. He accuses John of throwing away the last physical thing they had of his mother now that the Jeep is in scrapes down at the yard. John goes on to explain that his mothers memory doesn't live in the house, but in their hearts and their memories. As cheesy as it sounds, it get's Stiles to shut up and finally resign. He lightens up when John tells him all the stuff from the Stilinski house is in the loft.

Stiles reconnects with the pack. He speaks to Scott as if he never left, doesn't question the continuous touches the pack leave, whether it be on his shoulder or his back or his hand, something to leave a scent. Derek knows Stiles knows what they're doing, because he smiles every time they do, but he doesn't stop it.

Jason excuses himself at lunch time, telling Stiles that he's going back to Selina's, to be careful and to call if he needs anything.  _Anything_ , he had repeated with emphasis. Stiles had just rolled his eyes and accepted the hug before Jason was disappearing from the air like a ghost.

Scott freaks out when it happens, claiming they can teleport.

Stiles laughs at him too. "No, that was me. Jason doesn't have the ability to teleport, so I just do it for him."

The pack become intrigued by Stiles' abilities, curious as to what else he can do. Stiles is unusually secretive regarding what's happened to him in the past five years. He dodges the questions like a flying ball, tiptoeing around them whenever he can.

Derek feels like everything is slotting into place, just as it always was. The only thing is different is Stiles is more grown up. He's lost his jittering, his usual constant movement and flails. He doesn't talk as fast or as much, watches instead of makes sound. One thing Derek can't get over, one thing he can't stop thinking about, is how old Stiles' eyes look. The one thing that's aged the most is his eyes, holding the wonders of the world no 21 year old would know.

It makes Derek wonder what Stiles has seen in the last five years to make his eyes look so haunted.

Stiles asks about the pack, what they've been up to. Of course, college comes up, and Derek notices the way Stiles' shoulders slump. He should be in college, he should be out there, living his life with no fear or worry or ties.

It's almost evening when Stiles finally says, "Isaac, I think you should be cautious of Lydia, she's trying to steal your scarf game."

Lydia glares him half-heartedly. "Shut it, Stilinski."

"Is your throat okay?" Stiles asks, frowning. He's obviously heard the rasp in her voice, and wearing a scarf all day inside is unusual. "Does it still hurt from Kali?"

Lydia doesn't say anything. Derek knows it's hurting, and he has seen Jackson holding her hand this entire time, pulling the pain whenever it comes.

Stiles approaches her slowly, raising his hands before he pauses, "Do you mind?"

Lydia shakes her head, but her eyebrows are pinched in confusion.

Stiles slowly unravels the scarf, un-looping it from around the banshees neck.

"Shit," he murmurs softly when he sees the watercolour display of bruises smudged on her skin. Stiles raises his hands until they're hovering around Lydia's neck. He closes his eyes, a white glow emitting and just as before, wrapping around her throat like silky vines.

Lydia gasps, and Derek see's Jackson shift to push Stiles away, but Allison stops him.

"Don't," she warns, suddenly at Jackson's side, holding his shoulder.

Jackson snarls at her but doesn't move. A moment later, Stiles opens his eyes, his entire eye is a glimmering silver, shiny like mercury. He blinks and it’s gone, the cinnamon brown back in its place and Lydia is letting out another gasp as the white light falls away. When Stiles takes his hands back, everyone's eyes widen at the clear and unbruised skin of Lydia's throat.

The banshee reaches up and touches the previously tender skin, swallowing and smiling.

"You healed it," she murmurs, voice solid and normal.

Stiles smiles, taking a step back. He looks a shade paler, but he's steady on his feet.

"That is so cool!" Scott exclaims boldly.

The rest of the afternoon is gone in a blink. They order pizza for dinner like old times, sitting on the couches in the living room. Stiles has a moment with his father, the pair of them sitting in the kitchen alone as they reconnect. The wolves in the house take the decency not to listen in, knowing the two Stilinski men need their private time after so long apart.

John and Melissa go home not too long after dinner and after the emotional whirlpool the past few days have been, the pack fall asleep fairly quick on the floor, curled up all together in a large pile of pillows and limbs.

Derek dozes on the couch, but wakes up when he hears a soft click of a door being closed. He opens his eyes, instantly falling on the empty slot on the sofa where Stiles had been after he kindly refused to join in in the cuddle.

Derek gets up from the couch, tiptoeing over the sleeping pile of his pack as he creeps towards the front door. He can hear the sound of a calm, beating heart on the other side, and he takes a moment to listen to it, to relish in it before he clasps the handle and opens the door slowly.

Stiles sits on the first porch step, feet on the next one down so he's curled in on himself. He is back is towards the house and Derek, looking out over the front yard.

"What are you doing out here?" Derek asks, breaking the peaceful silence.

He feels disappointed when Stiles does jump, or flail, or yelp. Something he would have done years ago. Just another thing that's changed.

"I don't sleep very well," Stiles admits. "Insomnia and nightmares are an awful mix."

Derek nods, sitting down beside the male on the steps. He notices the cigarette between Stiles' fingers, and he raises an eyebrow.

"I didn't imagine you'd be one to smoke," he says.

Stiles looks at the rolled paper between his fingers.

"Neither did I," he says. "I only do it when I'm stressed."

"What are you stressed about?"

"Being home," Stiles whispers, almost so quiet that Derek can't hear.

The alpha frowns, and Stiles chuckles when he see's.

"See you still speak with your eyebrows," he muses, taking a long drag and blowing out the white smoke through his nose.

"You don't need to be stressed about being home, Stiles," Derek replies, finally. "We all want you here. We all need you here. You have no idea how much we missed you, how much your death effected us."

Stiles swallows audibly, looking down at his sock-covered feet almost sadly. "I'm sorry."

"No," Derek shakes his head. "You don't need to be sorry. You left for your own safety, for ours. You didn't have a choice."

"I could have come back sooner," Stiles says bitterly, tone dripping with self-hatred.

"You could have, but you didn't. You can't change what happened, and you're home now. That's all that matters."

Stiles looks at him with an expression Derek can't read and he hates that. Stiles used to read him like an open book, and he probably still can, yet Derek can't name a damn thing that filters across Stiles' face. He can only identify through smell, and the smells of burnt electricity and tobacco cloud his senses.

"When did you become so. . . word-y?"

"When you left," Derek smiles softly. "We needed someone with the wise words to keep us sane."

Stiles nods, and they fall back into silence. There's so much Derek wants to ask, wants to say, but he can't. The words are sitting on the tip of his tongue, itching his throat, but he can't get them out. He's choking on them, suffocating.

"'Grief is not a disorder, a disease, or a sign of weakness. It is an emotional, physical and spiritual necessity, the price you pay for love. The only cure for grief is to grieve,’" Stiles recites, huffing a short laugh. "It's a quote by Earl Grollman. Seems almost fitting now."

Derek rolls the words over and over in his head before he speaks again, "Believe me, we've all grieved."

Stiles sighs quietly, rubbing a hand down his face before taking a long, heavy drag of the cigarette. When he lets the smoke out, it comes out slowly through his nose, as if he doesn't have the motivation in him to actually open his mouth.

He drops his head suddenly, looking at his feet again.

"I'm sorry," he repeats. "I didn't want this to happen. I didn't want to hurt you, or leave you. I didn't want to put you through that, any of you, especially my dad. I didn't. . . I just didn't know how to come back, and the longer I left it, the harder it was."

"Then why did you come back now?"

"The word finally reached us about the alpha pack," Stiles explains. "We've been half-heartedly following them for months, taking down other threats as we go and detouring to help others. Selina is a very well-known witch and is constantly being called on to help emissaries in training or protecting packs. Me and Jason normally go along with her if there isn't something else to deal with. The trail we have had on the alpha pack has been weak, they move fast and are unpredictable. I probably should have predicted they'd come here soon. I guess it was just false hope that they wouldn't."

"So you came back to deal with the alpha pack?" Derek would be lying if he says he isn't hurt slightly, but he's trying to understand why Stiles stayed away. Derek kind of gets it: he didn't want to come back after he left for New York, after all the chaos with the fire and being partially raised by Laura in a small, upbeat flat in the centre of the busy city. The last thing he wanted to do when Laura went missing was come back to the town that started it all, but he did, and he guesses Stiles kind of feels the same way he did.

Except Derek was avoiding memories, when Stiles was avoiding people.

"You have to understand, Derek, I've wanted to come home for so long," Stiles stresses. "Ever since I woke up, I've wanted to be home with you all, to show you I'm okay. It was horrible at the funeral, being able to see how much I hurt people."

"It only hurt because we loved you. You're pack, Stiles. As much as we didn't show it very well then, it hurt a damn lot when you died, more than you can imagine,"

"I can imagine it just fine," Stiles says, stabbing the dead butt of the cigarette into the decking, crushing it with his shoe, and Derek inwardly winces. Stiles lost his mother, he knows death and grief just as much as they all do. "I just. . . I had to stay away to begin with. I was dangerous, to myself and you. I didn't have control, I needed to learn and train. My name was already filtering around the supernatural world, half the people knew more about my powers than I did. It would have ben selfish to come back, to bring all that back with me. I guess after a while, I managed to convince myself I was doing the right thing, that I was keeping you safe."

"No matter what danger you're in, Stiles, you are always welcome here. You're an idiot to think otherwise," Derek replies. It feels like he's repeated that a thousand times, but he will say it as many times as he needs and more until Stiles finally understands that this is where he belongs.

Stiles looks up at him then, golden eyes shining like glistening whiskey in a crystal glass. His face, still so young yet so aged, his eyes a thousand years old, captivates all of Derek's attention. He doesn't miss it when Stiles' eyes slip down to his lips, just for a moment, before they're flicking back up to his eyes almost guiltily.

Derek decides he doesn't want to wait anymore. He's waited five years, he’s grieved for five years for the mate he thought he lost, and he'll be damned if he lets him go again.

He closes the gap between them just as Stiles does the same, their lips meeting in the middle in a tender, slow kiss. The action sends a shiver down Derek's spine. He can taste the nicotine on Stiles' tongue, sharp and prominent. He feels the cold tips of Stiles' fingers as they come up to cup Derek's cheek.

They break apart a moment later and Derek doesn't realise his eyes slipped closed until he's opening them, finding Stiles' face inches away from his, his big, brown eyes staring into his own green ones as if he's breaking them apart, analysing them piece by piece. Derek lets him, hoping his true happiness and adoration for the male is clear in them.

"How long?" Stiles whispers, voice so soft it almost cracks.

"Before you died. I knew I felt something, I just didn't know what until you were gone."

Stiles nods, smiling watery. "I'm sorry."

"Stop apologising, please," Derek murmurs.

Stiles nods, connecting their lips again a moment later. This kiss is different. It's hungrier, stronger. Stiles deepens it quickly, and Derek gladly complies, slipping his tongue into Stiles' mouth. He feels arousal surge through his veins like a second blood.

The kiss escalates into a long make-out, leaving them both breathless, lungs burning when they break apart. They don't stay separate for long, catching their breaths before quickly connecting against like starving animals and kissing is their only salvation.

Derek doesn't care. The feeling of Stiles' soft lips against his own, despite how messy and sloppy the kisses become, it's the best feeling in the world. It's what he's been craving for years.

Derek doesn't tell Stiles he's his mate. It's a big announcement, a big step and a huge declaration. He doesn't even know if Stiles feels that strongly for him, and he sure as hell isn't going to screw up what he's finally made with something as serious as that.

Stiles sucks a mark into Derek's neck, groaning when it quickly disappears and covering his mouth the muffle the moan when Derek does the same, leaving a purple mark on his neck, just where he would bite him if he was to take the mate bite.

Derek doesn't think about it too hard and instead enjoys the feeling of Stiles' lips against his, his cold hands cupping his cheeks. 

 

_— tbc._


	4. hell is empty and all the devils are here

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **hell is empty and all the devils are here** \- william shakespeare, the tempest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If any of you read my other works, I want to apologise for the lack of updates. I have finals at college and a lot going on outside of writing so my wip's have taken the bottom priority. They're not being abandoned, I'm just struggling to find time.
> 
> Much love <3

****4

Stiles disappears again after that. He leaves with Jason and Selina, disappearing from their lives once more. The pack try to find him again, and John is just deciding to declare Stiles as a missing person again when Scott gets a text from a random number. It's Stiles, of course, apologising for leaving again but saying it's for 'good reason'. When Scott asks why, it takes days for Stiles to reply. Five, long, agonising days as their minds rack the worst possible scenarios Stiles could be in when he comes back and texts that his status is dangerous, that a lot of people want to kill him, to steal his power, and if he stays in Beacon Hills he will only attract all the threats towards the pack.

He phones the sheriff sometimes, once every few weeks for a couple minutes to tell him he's alive and okay. He sounds tired, sometimes raspy. There's the odd time that he cries, telling John that the only thing he wants is to be home with his father and the pack. Derek cries that night too, his wolf howling for his mate to come home. It was simple torture to have Stiles ripped out of his grip after only just getting him back, falling too far out of reach. It pains him, so much sometimes he feels like he can't even breath until he hears the static sound of his voice through John's phone.

The pack go back to college, finishing their third year and going onto their fourth and final years. Erica goes back to Brooklyn with Boyd, and Allison goes to New York with Lydia while Jackson leaves for England again. Isaac and Scott stay, both of them studying close enough not to leave.

They all come home for summer, relishing in the comfort of the pack before they go back for their fourth year, and for most, their final year of college.

It's a little over a year later, three days before Christmas, when Stiles finally comes home.

He hadn't spoken the pack almost a whole month prior, his last contact being a short phone call to John and John only saying that he was in Vancouver, and whatever was happening there apparently wasn't going as well as they all hoped. When John asked if Stiles was coming home for Christmas, Stiles gave back a weak, 'I don't know. Don't get your hopes up, pops. I'll be home when I can'. The way Stiles talked made him sound like an army agent away from home, baring the bad news to his family.

The day Stiles comes home, the pack are all sitting in the kitchen, in the middle of eating breakfast when the doorbell goes. They all look up in surprise, confused as to why they hadn't heard the oncoming heartbeat and the sound of footsteps approaching the door.

Erica sighs loudly, borderline a groan. "Fine. I'll get it then."

Derek watches with stern eyes as Erica gets up and dramatically storms out of the kitchen and into the foyer of the house. A moment later, they hear the sound of the door opening and a loud, high pitched squeal.

Boyd is up before anyone can move, moving to the door quickly when they all hear a loud, "You came home! I can't believe you're here!"

Frowning, Derek pushes Boyd out of the way and steps into the hallway of the house. At the front door, Erica has Stiles in a death-grip hug, arms wrapped so tight around the humans neck Derek is surprised he's still conscious.

"Stiles?!" Scott asks.

Erica lets go of him a moment later, releasing her hold around his neck but still smiling like a child on Christmas morning with their dream gift. Scott surges forward, snatching Stiles into his arms and squeezing him just as tight as Erica had.

"You're here!" Scott shouts, lifting Stiles off his feet for a moment. Stiles chokes out a laugh, hugging Scott back and clapping his shoulders.

"Yeah, buddy," Stiles replies, grinning at the pack over his friends shoulder. "I'm here."

The pack move in, clapping Stiles on the shoulder or yanking him into a hug as they greet him, telling him how good it is he's back and how much of an asshole he is for not telling them earlier. Stiles takes it all in with a wide smile and big eyes.

They move into the kitchen eventually, and Derek stands at the door as they all pile back in to go to the table to finish breakfast. When Stiles passes him, being the last one, he flashes a nervous smile at Derek, almost hesitant, like he's unsure.

He wants to rip Stiles into him, the snake his arms around him and never let him go. He wants to kiss him again, to feel his soft lips and taste him in his tongue. His wolf howls and claws, his mate so close yet once again so far.

Instead, Derek just nods at him. "It's good to have you home."

Stiles beams at him, his smile growing larger at the six simple words. His shoulders even lose their tension slightly, slumping under the long black coat he's wearing. It's then that Derek finally gets to look at Stiles more closely. He's dressed in all black again, his coat hanging down to the middle of his thin thighs. His black jeans are tight, his dirty boots far more broken and scruffy than before, covered in marks and bits falling off. His hair is still the same cut: longer on top but short at the sides, only the top is far more unkempt and wild. He looks like he's ready to fall asleep where he's standing.

Derek has never wanted to wrap someone up in a blanket and cuddle away all the pain and exhaustion so much, but right now, he wants to do nothing else but take away everything that's making Stiles look so worn down.

"Hey, Stiles, you're just in time for breakfast," Erica says, finally breaking Derek out of his head.

"Yeah, man, grab a plate. You look like you've lost weight, so we'll have to fatten you up over Christmas!" Scott adds, turning in his chair so he can look over his shoulder towards his best friend still standing in the doorway.

Stiles smiles at them, hands in his pockets as he moves further into the kitchen. Erica takes it upon herself to jump up from her chair, swipe Stiles a plate from the worktop and thrust it into his hands.

"Look, we have bacon, sausages, eggs—"

"Erica," Derek interrupts, "he gets it."

Stiles chuckles, picking up a sausage and piling a mountain of bacon into his plate. "Thanks, Erica."

The blonde wolf beams at him before turning and returning to her seat. Stiles stays leaning against the counter, munching on a strip of bacon while the pack mutter and chat around the table. Stiles looks like he fits yet like he's an outcast at the same time.

"So, where have you been all this time?" Jackson asks with a mouthful of egg. Lydia whacks him on the shoulder with a face of disgust.

"Yeah, you've been gone for over a year, man," Scott adds.

Stiles huffs a forced laugh, "Uh, y'know, was in Vancouver for a while, moved around quite a bit after that. I'm more interested in what you guys have been doing. Final year of college, am I right?"

"Only for me, Boyd and Lydia," Scott replies. "Although, Lydia now has to do more school, right?"

"Yes, Scott. I have to do at least three years of residency," Lydia explains. She looks to Stiles, smiling with confidence.

"You're gonna be one hell of a doctor, Lyds," Stiles muses.

"Of course. I'll be able to stitch you up next time you decide to go head to head with an alpha," Lydia snarks, raising a thinly-plucked eyebrow like a disapproving mother.

Stiles chokes on his bacon, swallowing it down thickly.

"Hopefully that won't happen again," he says sheepishly. "Speaking of which, I'm guessing they haven't been back?"

Scott shakes his head. "Nah, man, they're long gone. Is that why you were in Vancouver?"

"Oh, uh, no," Stiles replies, chuckling slightly. He rubs the back of his neck with the hand not holding his plate. "No, I was in Vancouver for another reason."

"Which leads to my question, what's Canada like?" Lydia asks.

"Uh, cold," Stiles laughs. "It's pretty chilly. I didn't really see much other than woods and mountains, but I guess it was nice."

Lydia hums, sitting back in her chair. "I want to go there for a vacation," she says. "Think I'll like it?"

"I think you'll like the opportunity to wear big coats and expensive scarves," Stiles replies. "But you probably won't like the rain and mud."

The whole pack laugh, and even Derek finds himself chuckling.

When the pack finish with breakfast, they all excuse themselves to go and get dressed. Scott turns to look at Stiles when he's at the door, the other still leaning against the counter.

"I was gonna go and see my mum in a bit, wanna come? You can see your dad," Scott says.

Stiles smiles and nods. "Yeah, that'd be great. Thanks."

Scott smiles like a puppy and turns to leave, leaving only Stiles and Derek in the kitchen.

Derek tries to fill the silence quickly, and it only reminds him so much of how things have changed: it used to be Stiles rushing to fill the silence, not Derek.

"Do you want something to drink?" Derek asks, noticing how Stiles hadn't reached to get himself one since he turned up.

Stiles looks at him like he'd forgotten Derek was there. "Oh, uh. . . yeah. D'you have coffee? I need something to wake me up."

Derek nods, moving to the machine. He dares to ask, "You not sleeping?"

"When do I ever?" Stiles scoffs, muttering a quiet 'thank you' when Derek passes him a large mug of steaming coffee. He instantly takes a sip, and Derek winces. "What?"

"It's fresh. You'll burn yourself," Derek scolds like a mother.

Stiles rolls his eyes and takes another, smugly large gulp. "I've been drinking hot coffee since I was ten. Nothing else wakes up a sleep deprived student in need to finish school assignments like fresh, boiling coffee."

This time, Derek rolls his eyes.

Scott comes in a moment later, dressed. "Ready to go?"

Stiles nods, finishing off the mug in a few gulps. He puts the mug down, as well as the plate, still half-piled with bacon, sausage and egg that he hasn't eaten.

Stiles follows Scott out of the kitchen with a small wave towards Derek before he's gone.

 

"I can't believe you're really back, man," Scott gushes as they settle in the car.

"I can't believe you can drive," Stiles laughs. "What happened to the bike?"

"I still have it," Scott replies, grinning as he looks over at his friend, "But I thought you'd appreciate going over in this."

Stiles barks a chuckle. "Yeah, better this than that death-trap. Though, my Jeep apparently wasn't any better."

The joke falls flat, as Stiles had expected. His attempt at humour had only struck a heartstring far harder than he intended when he see's Scott go silent.

"Sorry, man. I didn't mean—"

"It's fine," Scott quickly amends, flashing him a puppy-smile. "It's just hard, bro. Still can't really believe you're actually alive."

Stiles smiles down at his lap. "I know. I get it, and I'm sorry, for everything—"

"Stop right there," Scott interrupts, tone holding no real heat. "You need to stop apologising. What happened wasn't your fault and for the sake of the holidays, please, let's not talk about it."

Stiles nods. "Alright. Deal."

The rest of the car journey consists of Scott rambling like a teenage-Stiles, and the older, quieter Stiles sitting listening. It was strange, but neither of them mentioned it.

John's reaction to Stiles standing on his doorstep that morning is more touching than their first reunion a year ago. His face is a whirlpool of emotions when he recognises Stiles at the threshold.

"Stiles?"

"Hey, dad," Stiles replies, smiling. Not a moment later, he's dragged into another bone-crushing hug. "I missed you," he mumbles into his father's cotton sweater shoulder.

"I missed you too, kiddo. A phone call a week isn't enough," John replies. He pulls back, holding Stiles at arms length by the shoulders, looking him over, smiling. "Where the hell have you been?"

"More places than I can explain," Stiles smiles. "I'm okay though, definitely happy to be home."

"Well, we're happy you're home," Melissa chimes in, stepping up and pulling Stiles into another hug. He can't resist melting into her like ice cream in a bowl. "You're not leaving again, are you?"

"I don't know," Stiles replies honestly. "I'm definitely home for Christmas. I promise, I won't run out on you all at this time of year."

"I wish you could tell us what you're doing," John says.

Stiles bites his bottom lip. "I don't think you'd let me leave if I told you."

"Well, I'm definitely doing everything to make you stay now," his father jokes. "Come on, Melissa's almost done with breakfast."

"No bacon for you, right, dad?"

John groans, closing his eyes.

Stiles laughs loudly, "Good to be home."

 

They all go back to the Hale house later on, after spending the entire morning and afternoon talking in the kitchen, drinking endless cups of coffee and Melissa's homemade lemonade that's sour yet sweet. Stiles finally feels himself feeling warm again, physically and metaphorically. The past few months have been hard, wearing down on him in every way imaginable. He's exhausted in every aspect, mind as tired as his aching muscles that he refuses to make obvious to the pack.

But being home has a feeling to it that Stiles didn't know it had, a feeling that makes him want to change his life, to leave his Spark behind, his title and his power just so he can stay home with his dad and the pack. He misses them, he always did and he realises now that he always will.

Melissa lets him cook dinner with her after he mentions his mother's homemade cottage pie tradition that she always cooked around Christmas. Melissa smiled at him when he mentioned it, grabbing his hand and dragging him off the couch, where he was talking to Erica about the new _Jessica Jones_ Netflix series, and into the kitchen.

They cook for hours. Stiles recites the recipe from memory, the measurements and timings known off by heart after hours and days of reading his mothers books after she passed. He was determined to keep her alive, in spirit and in memory at least, so he learned her recipes and cooked them, practising and perfecting it.

Melissa practically leaves him to do it, spending most of the cooking hours watching him in silence, a gentle smile upon her lips, nostalgia and pride sizzling in her veins.

Stiles cooks enough for at least two meals, but he wouldn't be surprised if he comes back tomorrow to find the entire platter gone. Wolves gotta eat, and they eat a lot.

"Come and get it," Melissa calls after they've set the table, and it's almost comical how the pack physically come barrelling in, tripping over each other in a haste to get the dinner table.

Erica moans, sniffing the air. "Oh my god," she groans loudly. "I wish it was always dinner time."

"Then you'd have nothing to look forward to in the evening," Melissa replies.

"Pudding," Erica grins, already stuffing a slice of garlic bread into her mouth. The pack take their seats, and Stiles moves to the doorway, picking his coat off the handle.

He looks at the pack, all of them sitting around the table, each chair taken. They're chatting, laughing, eating, reaching across each other in a mad, yet organised, way as they shovel the pie out of the bowl and onto their plates.

It's Scott who notices Stiles by the door, shrugging on his coat.

"Where are you going, man?"

The entire pack turn to look at him then, their faces falling. Stiles can't seem to open his mouth, and even if he could, he doesn't quite know how to tell them he isn't staying.

Scott frowns, slouching in his chair. "You're not staying for dinner?"

"The dinner that you just cooked!" Isaac adds.

"Nah, I still need to unpack and all," he shrugs, a cold sweat having broken out across his skin.

"Where are you staying?" Derek asks, voice gruff and it's like a punch to Stiles' lungs.

All he's been able to think about when Derek's been in the room with him since he got back, was the kiss. The beautiful, content and perfect kiss they shared before he left last year. Stiles hasn't been able to think clearly since, hasn't been able to completely focus because the feelings and memory of that night come flashing behind his eyes in a crystal clear view. It's like a shiver running down his spine, consuming his entire body whenever he thinks or sees or hears Derek. It was easier to manage when he was away, and he only thing he had to remind him was the memory or when the room was too quiet and his thoughts shouted too loud.

Being away was hard though. Stiles isn't sure he ever missed home so much since he came back to find what he'd actually been missing.

When he died, and when he woke up, it didn't quite feel real. He missed everyone, of course, but everything had changed too fast and so much he wasn't sure what he was meant to be missing. Things were just kicking off, he was just becoming part of the pack. He was sixteen, he didn't have much. But then he came home and he found the pack, he saw his dad and Derek, and he found then that the five years he'd been gone suddenly felt much longer, and he's craved the warmth home has.

Being with Jason and Selina isn't bad. He loves them, he cares for them and they do for him. The past six years have been hard, and every disaster has brought them impossibly closer, like they're their own pack. He would never replace them, or leave them or abandon them. They're his family too.

"A motel just out of town," Stiles says, jabbing his thumb over his shoulder. "I kinda just dropped my bags when I got in and came straight here."

"Oh," Derek replies, flatly, and Stiles wants to kiss the frown on his lips.

He's been wondering all this time if Derek regrets it. He hasn't said a thing, or implied or made any kind of impression that he wanted it since Stiles got back, and it truly is paining him.

"You know you can stay here, kiddo. I'm sure Derek doesn't mind, or you can stay at the house with me and Melissa," John says, standing and coming to the door.

Stiles chuckles softly, "Thanks, Pops, but I'm 22. I can stay in a motel by myself."

"That wasn't what I meant," John frowns.

Stiles laughs again, clapping his dad on the back and pulling him into a hug. "I know, I'm just teasing. I'll see you guys tomorrow, alright?"

"You can help us put the decorations up!" Isaac smiles, craning his neck backwards so it's bent over the back of the chair to look at Stiles.

"Hell yeah," Stiles grins. "I still can't believe you guys haven't put any up yet. It's literally Christmas in two days!"

"We've been busy, Stilinski," Lydia defends, her nose half-buried in her wine glass.

Stiles scoffs, "Haven't we all? I'll see you guys tomorrow. I'll come over and bake my traditional Christmas cookies!"

"Really?" Scott replies, gushing ecstatically. When Stiles nods, his grin widens, almost splitting his face in half. "Fuck yeah!"

"Language!" Melissa quietly scolds, despite her face lit up with a soft, small smile.

Stiles barks a laugh that tugs at Derek's heart strings like a violin, sucking the air out of his lungs.

He's gone a moment later, waving as he goes.

 

True to his word, Stiles does come over the the next day. Just as the first times, Derek doesn't hear the sound of approaching footsteps, or the rumble of a car engine. He just feels as the air becomes static, buzzing with a soft swirl of electricity and a moment later, the doorbell is ringing.

Derek frowns a moment before he remembers the front door is locked, as he's only been awake barely five minutes. He walks to the front door, his bare feet brushing soundlessly on the wooden-panelled floor.

Stiles stands on the other side, wearing an over-sized red sweatshirt that seems to swallow his entire lean frame, and skinny black jeans tucked into untied boots. His hands are stuffed in his pockets as he leans against the doorframe.

He smiles when Derek reveals himself, breath hitching the very slightest at the sight of Derek's bare chest. Derek had forgotten he wasn't wearing a shirt.

"Hi," he says, his eyebrows pinching inward a second later. "Did I wake you?"

Derek shakes his head, gathering his own scattered thoughts at the sight of Stiles looking so snug and cuddly, so innocent compared to the stark dark clothing he’d been wearing the last few times. "No. I was already up, just making some coffee."

Stiles' grin tugs a little wider. "Got any spare?"

Derek refuses to smile as he opens the door wider and motions Stiles in.

The rest of the pack are awake and shuffling into the kitchen by the time the coffee is brewed. Derek has snagged a t-shirt out of the washing basket just after he let Stiles in, cheeks flushed.

Stiles grins into the rim of his mug when Scott shuffles in, whining about it being far to early to be awake despite it already being nine-thirty.

"Y'never were a morning person, ay, Scotty?"

Scott's head snaps up, gaping at Stiles, evidently only just realising now that he’s there.

"Dude!" He says, and Derek can hear the disbelief in his voice too - he must have thought Stiles wasn't going to show either. "You're here?"

Stiles raises an insulted eyebrow. "Of course I'm here. I said I was gonna be, didn't I?"

"Yeah. Yeah, you did but. . ." Scott shrugs lamely, "I didn't know if you'd actually show."

Derek watches the emotions filter across Stiles' face, flicking so fast Derek can't decipher what he sees. Stiles' mixture of expressions end with masked humour.

"I'm not going anywhere for a while, buddy," Stiles smiles, the action strained and forced, but done so subtly Derek barely notices. "It's Christmas, figured I'd stick around for the holidays."

"We want that," Lydia smiles.

"Yeah, this is your home!" Isaac adds.

Derek wants to kiss the red blush that dusts Stiles' cheeks from the two comments. He doesn't, obviously, but that doesn't stop him from thinking about it.

By noon, all the decorations are down from the attic and up on the walls. The tree is huge in the living room, taking up the whole bay window. Covered in red and gold, twinkling with small light and dangling baubles.

Stiles is hanging up fairy lights over the mantle piece when Lydia puts the stereo on, blasting Christmas songs. They bellow _When The Snowman Brings The Snow_ at the top of their lungs. Derek stands in the doorway, watching as the pack sing and laugh. Stiles climbs down after he's done the lights, helping Lydia with the tree and the pair start dancing, twirling around each other as they sing and wail the words.

Derek finds himself smiling as he watches.

"You wanna dance, o’mighty alpha?" Erica asks, sliding up next to him.

The smile drops from his face.

"No."

Erica laughs, seeing right through the stoney appearance. "Y'know, you can join in. It's not a crime to have some fun. You don't need to be the brooding alpha constantly, we all know you have a soft side."

"More like a soft centre," Stiles corrects, walking up to them and opening another cardboard box. He looks up from where he's crouched on the floor over the box. "You're like a burnt marshmallow. Crispy on the outside, soft on the inside."

Erica screams with laughter, practically keeling over. "That is _perfect!_ "

Derek is still in mild shock. "Did you just call me a burnt marshmallow?"

Stiles grins at him, "No. I called you soft. . . and slightly crispy."

He winks before he's picking up the box, lifting it like it weighs nothing and walking back over to Lydia and the tree, beginning to dance and sway along to the song, much to Lydia's amusement.

The decorations take all day to put up. Boyd and Jackson are outside, hanging up white fairy-lights to Lydia's commands, weaving them around the posts of the porch and hanging them across the top.

Scott gets beers out for everyone as the sun begins to set over the horizon, handing them out. It's barely mid afternoon, the sky glowing gold and bronze beyond the trees.

"Happy Christmas Eve Eve," Stiles smiles, holding up his beer to chime against Derek's.

Derek is about to ask if Stiles should be drinking, before he remembers that he's no longer a teen, but in fact an adult. Stiles is 22, far past the teenage years.

A pang of grief settles in Derek's stomach like a heavy rock at the reminder of what Stiles missed out on over the past six years, and what the pack have missed sharing with him.

Stiles never graduated high school.

He never actually made it past sophomore year.

The clang is loud when Derek lifts his own bottle, but Stiles grin grows and Derek wants nothing more to make sure that smile never leaves.

Erica and Isaac come back from town once the sun has completely gone down with armfuls of takeout and chocolate truffle for dessert. John lights the fireplace and they all gather in the living room, surrounded by glowing Christmas decorations and flickering flames. The pack are settled on the sofas and floor, laughing and talking as Erica talks about some ugly customers she served before her and Boyd came home.

When Stiles makes a comment about Erica's 'brilliant' people skills, the she-wolf tosses a couple of fries his way. Stiles gasps in shock when they hit him, grinning mischievously as he takes some of his own fries, tossing them back only to have Erica duck and the fries to hit Lydia straight on the forehead.

After the food fight, Derek knows he's going to be finding fries and lettuce for weeks.

The living room is warm and roasting when everyone turns in for the night. They don't go to their rooms though, they all settle in the living room for, as Scott calls them, a 'puppy pile'. The living room floor is covered in duvets and blankets and pillows, all of them curled and piled in on one another.

Stiles gets up after John and Melissa excuse themselves to the spare bedroom.

Derek stops Stiles in the doorway, pulling out a glistening, fresh metal key.

"For you," Derek says awkwardly. "It's for the front door, so you can come and go whenever you want."

Stiles stares at the key like Derek is giving him a diamond, his thin fingers slowly taking it cautiously from the palm of Derek's hand. His face is straight, unreadable, but it suddenly glows with a meltingly warm smile.

"You got me a key to the house?" He asks, looking down at it between his fingers.

Derek feels so uncharacteristically shy, he can barely hide the shake in his voice when he forces himself to say, "Yes."

Stiles chuckles softly, finally looking up and meeting Derek's eyes. The cinnamon Sparkles like the sun shining on a crystal glass of whiskey. "Thank you."

Derek nods. "It's a pack house, and. . . you're pack."

The smile slowly slips from the younger males face. Derek's heart sinks with it, wondering what he's done wrong as Stiles' expression cracks open, left so vulnerable.

Stiles is grinning again a moment later, biting his lip until it goes white. "Thanks. . . again. I just— . . . thank you, Derek."

Something inside Derek seals, the small remaining whole is filled with something warm and fitting. He has to stop himself from gasping as he feels his chest become complete again, like a missing rib has been replaced. The void inside his chest that he'd become immune to has finally been filled with something special.

"I should go," Stiles says, breaking Derek out of his blissful mindset. "I'll be back in the morning, though. And, I'll use my key," he finishes by waggling the metal key in the air in front of his face, grinning like the Cheshire Cat.

"Yeah," Derek murmurs so quietly he wonders for a moment if Stiles heard him.

"See you, Der," Stiles replies, moving out of the doorway while Derek is still trying to process the nickname.

Stiles looks at him over his shoulder when he stands on the last step of the porch, flashing Derek almost large grin before he's disappearing from sight, fading like a shut down hologram.

Derek stands on the porch long after Stiles has gone, just staring at the air he was standing in, wondering why he can't bring himself to tell Stiles the truth about them both.

 

Stiles uses his key in the morning and greets Derek with big smiles in the kitchen when the alpha comes down a little after nine.

He's dressed in a pair of dark jeans and boots, but his normal black top and coat are replaced by the warm red sweatshirt again. He has his normal washed out complexion, but the smile he flashes Derek is completely contrasting.

"Morning, sleepyhead," Stiles greets.

Derek grunts in reply, and Stiles hands him a mug of freshly brewed coffee to wake him up.

During the day, Stiles bakes cookies with Allison and Lydia, the kitchen filled with loud laughter and flying cookie batter. When they come out of the oven, it makes the house smell delicious.

They watch _A Christmas Carol_ after dinner and Derek spends the entire time watching Stiles, wondering what is running through the Sparks mind as he stares at the TV, curled up on the end of the couch, looking small and warm and soft.

Derek opens his eyes to a black TV screen. The fire under the mantel piece has long gone out, the wood still warm and glowing orange in places, radiating a gentle warmth. The pack are all sleeping, curled up on the floor and couches, heads on pillows and people, blankets covering them. Darkness creeps in from behind the curtains, telling the alpha it's still nighttime.

Derek's eyes are drawn to the sudden uptake in a heartbeat, followed by a shuffling movement on the couch.

In the glowing light from the lamps left on, Derek see's Stiles' eyes flutter open from where he's stretched out on the couch, feet in Isaac's lap and head pillowed on the sofa's arm. Derek gets up, in need of the bathroom and as he passes Stiles, he places a hand on the waking mans shoulder.

Stiles looks up at him, eyes half-lidded with sleep.

"Stay the night," Derek replies, voice low and husked with a whisper.

Stiles doesn't seem to need anymore convincing, as he's nodding already, head falling back against the pillow, breath evened out before Derek's even moved. He looks down at the sleeping man, at the slow rise and fall of his chest and wonders how the hell they even got here after the last six years they've had.

 

Derek is the first one up on Christmas morning. He sneaks silently into the kitchen, able to not disturb the slumbering pack in the living room.

He's on his second mug of coffee when he hears a shift in heartbeat, moments before Stiles shuffles into the room, feet dragging on the floor and rubbing his eyes. The pyjamas he'd changed into the night before look adorable on him, and a pair of over sized sweatpants with the ankles cuffed and a washout sweater, too many sizes too big and littered with tatty holes should not look _that_ attractive.

Stiles’ hair is another story, practically snatching the breath out of Derek's lungs. He has to tighten his grip on his half-empty mug to stop himself from running his fingers through the bed-hair, delicious brown locks sprawled upwards, defying gravity in a messy, unruly nest.

Stiles moans softly, eyes closed, and the sound does something to Derek.

"I smell coffee," Stiles mumbles, heavy eyes peeling open. He cracks a soft smile.

Derek can't stop himself from smiling back. It's contagious. Stiles doesn't need to say anymore before Derek is lunging across the kitchen, pouring the Spark a steaming, fresh mug of coffee.

Stiles drops down in the stool by the breakfast bar, thanking Derek softly when the alpha slides a mug into his hands.

Silence stretches between them. Derek doing everything he can not to stare at Stiles, at his lips around the rim of the mug, at the long, pale, thin fingers clasped around the handle, at the glow of his whiskey brown eyes, at the stretch of his neck, at the shape of his shoulders under the ragged jumper. He's driving himself mad, glaring at the floor.

"Hey, Derek."

The mention of his name, spoken so gently, like a mother cradling her child. It warms through his chest instantly.

He looks up to find Stiles smiling at him.

"Merry Christmas," Stiles says.

A smile finds its way upon Derek's face again, and this time, he doesn't stop it. "Merry Christmas, Stiles."

A few minutes later, Stiles is sliding out of the bar stool and making his way to the coffee maker.

"Want some more?"

Derek nods, "Thanks."

"Are they always this lazy on Christmas morning?"

Derek nods again, "And every other day of the year."

"It's strange to have my dad here," Stiles replies. "He used to work most Christmas'. When I was old enough, he'd do his shift in the morning so he could be home for Christmas dinner."

"He hasn't worked on Christmas in a while," Derek says. He doesn't want to mention how the older man stopped working on Christmas the first Christmas after Stiles 'died', and hasn't since. John explained it to Derek one year, when the whiskey numbed his brain-to-mouth filter and he spilled the mental demon that he didn't want to waste another moment at work when he could be home with his loved ones. The unsaid part that the sheriff regretted all those lost Christmas mornings with his son.

They all realised they'd taken a lot for advantage when Stiles 'died'. Stiles himself included.

"That's good," Stiles smiles, and there's no hint of hurt, or sadness, or anger in his tone of expression. "It's good to know he's at home, with the people he loves."

"You're one of those people, Stiles,"

"I know," Stiles' smile doesn't slip, but it loses something. "I just wasn't here. . ."

Derek wants to say something. He wants to make it right, to take away Stiles' mental pain like he can his physical pain.

But he can't. He doesn't know what to say to make it better, to make Stiles feel like he belongs here after all this time.

He doesn't get a chance to think of something, for barely a moment later, Scott comes into the room, and then Isaac, and the rest of the pack. It occurs to Derek that he didn't even realise they had woken up, hadn't even heard the change in breathing and heartbeats. He was so inside his own head, so caught up in talking to Stiles and finding the right words to say he completely tuned out of everything beyond the Sparks words.

"Merry Christmas!" Scott bellows and he comes sliding in, grinning from ear to ear.

And then the moment is gone.

 

For Christmas, Derek gets a soft knitted jumper from Erica and Boyd, new reading books from Isaac and Scott, a French scarf from Lydia and Jackson, a new large mug from Allison, and a half-filled photo album from John and Melissa, with the request to fill the rest with the following year.

Derek felt warmed and happy, pleasant and loved with the gifts he was given. And then, Stiles gave him his.

It was a wide ring, a thick strip of curled metal, heavy and solid, with a triskelion carved into the face.

Derek runs his fingers over the thin, fine and precise engraving, marvelling in the detail and the perfection of the circles and symmetry. "Stiles. . ." he whispers, choked on emotion.

"Don't get emotional on me now, Sourwolf," Stiles grins, and Derek can see the softness Sparking through it. He can see the thought and effort in the gift.

"It's beautiful," Derek finally gets out.

Stiles' smile widens. "Better be. Took me ages to find it."

Derek can't bring himself to say anything else. He is truly speechless.

"You're welcome," Stiles says, and it doesn't sound sarcastic, or annoyed, or smug. It sounds sincere, as if he heard the unspoken gratitude Derek is overwhelmed with.

The ring slips down his finger like a destined glove. Having a ring on his finger feels foreign and unusual, but the solid weight feels like it fits there, like it’s _meant_ to be there.

"Stiles. . . this is. . ." Derek shakes his head, trying to find the words.

Stiles grins, winking at him. "Don’t strain yourself. I know how awesome I am."

"Shut up, Stilinski," Jackson mutters, but there is no hostility in his tone.

Stiles flashes him a shit-eating grin before he flips him off.

"Okay, boys," Lydia says, "Calm your masculinity and Stiles open your damn presents."

"Yes, mom," Stiles snarks, snatching one of the presents off the table from the pile that was built when Erica dished out all the presents. "Y’know, I really wasn’t expecting presents from you guys. You all didn’t even know I was coming home until a few days ago."

"We would have still got you presents, son," John replies. "We would have just kept them and gave them to you when you did come home."

Stiles looks almost shy in the way he smiles, ducking his head. "You guys. . ."

"We know, we're awesome," Scott grins, leaning down from where he's sitting on the couch to fist pump Stiles in the shoulder, who is sitting on the floor by his feet.

For Christmas, Stiles gets a knitted jumper from Erica and Boyd (they got the same for everyone, just different colours), a cook book from Melissa and John, the new Star Wars DVD from Scott (and they were all surprised to find that Stiles not only didn't have it, but also had not even seen it), a new set of thick, wool socks from Isaac, a collection of books from Lydia and Jackson that are small enough is physical size for Stiles to be able to fit in his coat pockets, a matching set of gloves and a scarf from Allison, and then Derek's gift, who's heart is in his throat every second Stiles carefully unwraps the paper.

Derek's present is no where near as special as Stiles' for him, which is why his heart feels like a cold brick in his chest every moment Stiles takes to unwrap it.

The paper falls to the floor, and Stiles' face grows into an enormous grin.

"No way," he says, looking up at Derek. "How did you know this was my favourite book?"

"When we cleared out your room you had about ten copies of The Great Gatsby, and when I asked your dad he said it was your favourite book since you read it with your mother. So I. . . I didn't know what else to get you so--"

"It's beautiful," Stiles smiles, "Really. Thank you, Der. I love it. I haven't read it in years. Where did you even find this copy?"

Derek smiles. "Doesn't matter, I'm just glad you like it."

Thank-you hugs make their rounds before Melissa excuses herself to make breakfast. Stiles and Scott are talking about the Star Wars film Scott bought while Erica and Boyd cuddle on the couch and the others tidy away the used paper.

Stiles soon makes his way into the kitchen to help Melissa with the fry-up. Derek helps John stack up the piles of presents back around the tree and prep the dining table.

Breakfast fills the house with sound and rowdiness as they sit, gathered around the table, stomachs filled with food and heads giddy with Christmas excitement.

Derek is rinsing the dishes when someone comes up behind him, the rest of the pack in the living room.

"Leave those for later," Stiles' voice drifts into his ears as he places down another stack of plates on the side. "It's Christmas, no one should be doing the dishes on Christmas Day."

Derek hums, turning off the tap. "Having a good time?"

"The best," Stiles smiles. "You?"

Derek nods, drying his hands.

"Thanks for letting me stay the night, by the way," Stiles adds. "I really appreciate it."

"Of course."

"It's been a long time since I've done something like this over Christmas. It was. . . it was really nice," Stiles murmurs. "Thank you."

"You're always welcome here," Derek replies instantly, without a single drip of hesitation. "And I mean it. You're pack. You were always pack."

"I know that now," Stiles looks up at him when he says it, a smile stretched across his cupid-bow lips. "Plus, your couch is way more comfortable than a hotel bed."

Derek laughs. "I'm glad to know that."

_Does this mean you'll stay again tonight?_

_And the night after?_

_And the next?_

Derek doesn't say this, but he so desperately wants to know. He wants to know where stiles is going next, when he's going to leave them and for how long. He wants to go with Stiles, to protect him and hold him. At least when they thought Stiles was dead there was no endless wondering of where he is, what he's doing and if he's okay. He was gone and that was that. It hurt but it was acceptable. The coming and going hurts more than the idea of him dying does.

Stiles and John leave at lunch time to go and visits Claudia's grave on the other side of town while everyone else lounges around, listening to the Christmas songs on the radio in the kitchen, munching on cookies and sweets. Lydia, Erica, Jackson and Allison all call their parents while Boyd rings his grandparents. Derek sends a text to Peter and Cora, whom had gone to New York for the holidays to visit friends Cora had made.

By the time Stiles and John get back, their both red-eyed but smiling and Melissa is almost done with the Christmas dinner.

Dinner is another loud affair. Derek finds himself unable to keep his eyes off the male down the other end of the table, who's laughter is not the loudest anymore but reaches Derek ears above everyone else's. Derek follows the lines and maps of his face: his sharp jaw, high cheekbones, smooth slope of his nose, softness of his eyes. He wants to run his fingers through his hair, to make it look more messed up. It already looks like sex hair, but something heats up inside Derek at the idea of Stiles' hair looking like that because of him.

Everyone but the wolves are too full for pudding, and after devouring plates of freshly made coffee cake, they move into the living room in preparation for a film to watch.

Neither Derek nor Stiles mention the main thing on both of their minds until after dinner and dessert.

Derek's eyes follow as the figure creeps towards the front door like a shadow, soundless and colourless in his dark clothing, instead of going into the living room with the rest of the pack. The moment Derek hears the soft click of the door lock falling into place, he's on his feet and following the Spark out.

Stiles is standing on the edge of the porch. Large, booted feet on the brim of overhanging the first wooden step. He's got his hands tucked into the big pockets of his coat that sits over his maroon red hoodie. He's looking out over the moon-lit front garden, and though Derek can't see his face from where he's standing at the closed door, he can tell Stiles' mind is far from his body.

Derek steps forward, and he's surprised when Stiles doesn't turn around when the wood creaks under Derek's shoe. He sees him twitch, though, shoulders tensing for a moment, almost too quick to see, before they relaxed.

"What's wrong?" Derek asks.

Stiles looks at him. "Who says there's something wrong?"

"Because you're out here, and everyone else is inside," Derek replies, tone very matter-of-fact-ly.

Stiles sighs, looking down with closed eyes and Derek just wants to reach out and touch him. A simple touch, a hand on his shoulder or his neck, to feel the tense tendons underneath become loose, relaxed. He wants Stiles to relax, to stop being so wound up like the pack are going to suddenly kick him out.

"Do you regret it?" Stiles asks, breaking the silence without looking up.

"Regret what?"

"The kiss," Stiles finally looks up, turning his head so he can look Derek in the eye, and for once, Derek can see every emotion in them. "I've been thinking about it all year. I can't. . . I can't stop wondering if you wanted it or if it was just a spur in the moment."

"I wanted it," Derek replies quietly but quickly, instant. "I _still_ want it."

Stiles' face relaxes from its original masked expression. The walls of the castle around him fall down and Derek can now see everything.

"You. . . you still want it?" Stiles whispers, so quiet as if he's too scared to say it louder.

Derek nods and closes the gap between them. Their faces inches apart, breaths mixing. Derek looks down into Stiles' eyes, the whiskey rings shining so bright and bold and vulnerable in front of him.

"I still want you, Stiles," Derek says. He can hear Stiles' racing heart over the blood rushing to his ears. He can feel his heart beating at his ribs, his wolf fighting to get out. "I've wanted you for a long time."

He can feel Stiles' fast breathing ghosting over his lips as he closes the gap between them.

It's just like the first time. Ecstasy shoots down his spine like shiver. His hands find their way to Stiles' hips, gripping the bones beneath the skin like a lifeline. Stiles' lips move against his, soft and warm and perfect. He feels Stiles' arms snake around his neck, his cold fingers running through the short hairs on the base of his head as he deepens the kiss even more.

He's breathless when they pull apart, resting his forehead against Stiles', lips still touching. He can feel Stiles smiling against his lips, and the action must be contagious as Derek soon finds himself grinning uncontrollably. His arms tighten around Stiles' waist a fraction, pulling him slightly closer.

"Why did we wait a year to do this again?" Stiles murmurs, breath hot against the swollen red of Derek's lips.

"Because you were gone for a year," Derek replies.

"Oh," Stiles says lamely. He pulls back, face turned down into a confused pout that shouldn't be as adorable as it is. "Well, I guess I'll just have to make sure I don't leave again then, won't I?"

Stiles grins at him, connecting their lips again, this time slower and more tender, not so rushed and desperate. Derek's wolf keens inside him, pushing all of his affection and feelings into the kiss that he refuses to deepen. He wants to show Stiles it isn't all messy make outs, things can be slow and sweet and just as perfect.

"You guys coming back in anytime soon?" Scott shouts, moments before the front door opens and the pair split, jerking back from each other. Derek instantly feels cold from the loss of Stiles' smaller frame pressed up against him, his hands on his neck, when Scott comes out of the house and stands in the doorway. "We wanna start the film."

"Yeah, we're coming," Stiles replies, voice cracking slightly to begin with. He looks at Derek from where he was standing across from him.

Scott looks between the both of them, his lips curling up slightly, almost so subtle Derek doesn't notice.

Scott is turning around then and disappearing back into the house. Stiles flashes him a shaky smile as he pushes off the post of the porch he was leaning on.

"Come on, big guy," he grins, clapping him on the shoulder and heading inside, and Derek follows him soundlessly.

The pair of them find themselves on the same sofa. Scott and Allison are curled up on the love seat, Isaac, Erica and Boyd are on the cushions on the floor, Lydia and Jackson curled up beside them. John and Melissa are on the other sofa, together under the thick wool blanket Stiles had got them as a Christmas present.

They play the movie _Home Alone_ (Isaac's choice), and settle down. Derek finds that Stiles slowly begins to sag into the deep cushions of the couch and Derek finds himself constantly tearing his attention away from the screen to see if he's okay.

Stiles shifts about half way through the movie, curling into Derek's side and resting his head on his shoulder. When Derek looks down at him, he smiles.

"Sorry," Stiles whispers. "I'm cold and you're like a hot water bottle."

"It's okay," Derek whispers back, moving his arm so it's curled around Stiles' back.

He feels the moment Stiles' full weight melts against him. The moment his heartbeat slows and his breath becomes soft.

Derek doesn't know when the credits roll, he's too busy looking down at the curled up, sleeping man against him. Stiles now has his face pressed into Derek's chest, cradled in his arms like a child with his legs stretched out across the rest of the couch. In that moment, Derek feels like he can't breathe. Stiles looks so beautiful, so relaxed and at peace, all the frown lines he normally wears are gone and smoothed over with the gentleness of sleep.

His attention is snatched when the screen in front of him clicks and goes black.

Derek looks up and sees the pack already looking at them, smiles and grins on their faces. Isaac reaches up from the floor and pats him on the knee, smiling and Derek has to fight to stop himself from preening at all the attention.

He looks to John. He doesn't know why, but he feels drawn to the older man, as if seeking permission.

"It's okay," John says, nodding and smiling too. "I'm happy for you both. I know how much you both mean to each other."

Derek sleeps on the couch with Stiles that night, cuddling him close to his chest like a child with a teddy. He wakes before Stiles and gets up to make breakfast while his mate continues to sleep.

 

— _tbc._

**Author's Note:**

> All chapter titles are quotes from Shakespeare quotes!


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